KING  ARTHUR'S  SOCKS 

AND   OTHER    VILLAGE  PLAYS 


BOOKS  BY  FLOYD  DELL 

THE    BRIARY-BUSH 

MOON-CALF 

WERE    YOU     EVER     A    CHILD? 

KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

JANET  MARCH     (To  be  pullished  in  1923) 


KING  ARTHUR'S  SOCKS 

AND    OTHER    VILLAGE    PLAYS 

By  FLOYD  DELL 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  October,  19Z2 


All  rights  reserved  under  the  International  Copyright 
Act.  Performances  forbidden  and  right  of  representa 
tion  reserved.  Application  for  the  right  of  performing 
any  of  these  plays  must  be  made  to  Alfred  A.  Knopf, 
Inc.,  220  West  Forty-Second  Street,  New  York. 


it  up,  electrotyped,  and  printed  ly  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  BingJiamton,  N.  Y. 
Paper  furnished  by  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 
Bound  ty  the  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


MANUFACTURE?     JN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

These  plays,  with  one  exception,  were  written  in 
Greenwich  Village,  and,  with  another  exception,  first 
performed  there — some  at  the  old  Liberal  Club,  and 
others  by  the  Provincetown  Players.  They  are 
souvenirs  of  an  intellectual  play-time  which,  being 
dead,  deserves  some  not-too-solemn  memorial. 

F.  D. 


M      366 


CONTENTS 

HUMAN  NATURE:     A  Very  Short  Morality  Play,  9 

THE  CHASTE  ADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH:     A  Comedy,  15 

THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES:     A  Comedy,  43 

LEGEND:     A  Romance,  61 

SWEET-AND-TWENTY:     A  Comedy,  75 

A  LONG  TIME  AGO:     A  Tragic  Fantasy,  101 

ENIGMA:     A  Domestic  Conversation,  129 

IBSEN  REVISITED:     A  Piece  of  Foolishness,  141 

KING  ARTHUR'S  SOCKS:     A  Comedy,  149 

THE  RIM  OF  THE  WORLD:     A  Fantasy,  175 

POOR  HAROLD:     A  Comedy,  221 


HUMAN  NATURE 

A  VERY  SHORT  MORALITY  PLAY 


To  ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE 


This  is  a  much  changed  version  of  "A  Five  Minute  Problem 
Play,"  originally  given  at  the  Liberal  Club,  New  York  City, 
in  1913. 


Boundless  blue  space.  Two  celestial  figures  stand 
in  -front  of  it,  talking.  One  of  them  carries  a 
pointer,  such  as  is  used  in  class-room  demonstra 
tions  at  the  blackboard.  The  other  has  a  red- 
covered  guide-book  under  his  arm. 

THE    FIRST    CELESTIAL    FIGURE     (the    OUC    With    the 

pointer)  Well,  I  think  that  is  all.  You've  seen 
everything  now. 

THE    SECOND    CELESTIAL    FIGURE    ( t he    OU6   With    the 

guide-book)  It  has  all  been  very  interesting,  and 
I  don't  know  ihow  to  thank  you  for  the  trouble 
you've  taken. 

THE  FIRST  CELESTIAL  FIGURE.  Don't  mention  it. 
That's  my  business,  you  know — to  show  young  and 
curious  Spirits  what  there  is  to  see  in  the  universe. 
And  I  must  say  that  you've  been  an  exceptionally 
patient  pupil.  I  don't  usually  take  as  much  time 
with  youngsters  as  I  have  with  you.  But  when  I 
find  someone  as  interested  in  the  universe  as  you  are, 
I  don't  mind  spending  a  few  more  aeons  on  the  job. 
We've  been  all  around,  this  trip.  I  don't  believe 
we've  missed  anything  of  any  importance.  But  if 
there  is  anything  else  you  can  think  of  that  you'd 
like  to  see — 

11 


HUMAN    NATURE 


THE  SECOND  CELESTIAL  FIGURE  (hesitantly)  Well, 
there  is  one  place.  .  .  .  It's  only  mentioned  in  a 
footnote  in  the  guide-book,  but  for  that  very  reason 
I  thought  perhaps  — 

THE  FIRST  CELESTIAL  FIGURE.  You  have  the  right 
attitude.  There's  nothing  too  small  or  insignificant 
to  know  about.  Do  you  remember  the  name  of  the 
place? 

THE    SECOND     CELESTIAL     FIGURE*       No,    but  -  (He 

turns  the  leaves  of  the  gwde-book.)  Here  it  is. 
(He  holds  the  book  closer  so  as  to  read  the  fine  print 
at  the  bottom  of  the  page.)  Earth,  it's  called. 

THE  FIRST  CELESTIAL  FIGURE.  Ah,  yes,  there  is 
such  a  place.  .  .  . 

THE    SECOND    CELESTIAL    FIGURE.       The    guide-book 

doesn't  give  any  information  about  it.  Just  men 
tions  its  name. 

THE  FIRST  CELESTIAL  FIGURE.  Well,  there  isn't 
very  much  to  say  about  it.  After  what  you've  seen, 
you  wouldn't  be  impressed  by  its  art  or  its  archi 
tecture.  .  .  .  Still,  it  has  one  curious  feature  that 
perhaps  you'd  be  interested  in.  It's  — 

He  pauses. 

THE   SECOND    CELESTIAL  FIGURE.       Yes  ? 

THE  FIRST  CELESTIAL  FIGURE.  Perhaps  I  had  bet 
ter  just  show  you,  and  let  you  make  what  you  can 
of  it. 

THE  SECOND  CELESTIAL  FIGURE  (deferentially)  As 
you  say. 


HUMAN    NATURE  13 

THE  FIRST  CELESTIAL,  FIGURE.  Here,  then — look 
for  yourself! 

He  raises  the  pointer,  and  boundless  space  rolls 
up  like  a  curtain,  disclosing  a  comfortable  drawing- 
room.  The  two  celestial  figures  stand  aside  and 
look.  A  man  and  woman  are  sitting  on  a  sofa, 
kissing  each  other.  From  time  to  time,  in  intervals 
between  the  kisses,  they  speak. 

THE  MAN.     No !  No !     I  must  not ! 

But   he  does. 

THE  WOMAN.     No !  No !     We  must  not ! 

But  they  do. 

THE  MAN.     We  must  not — 

The  second  celestial  -figure  turns  to  look  inquir 
ingly  at  the  first,  and  boundless  space  falls  like  a 
blue  curtain  between  them  and  the  scene. 

THE     SECOND     CELESTIAL,     FIGURE.       It     is     strange. 

I've  seen  nothing  like  that  anywhere  in  the  universe. 
But  why  do  you  suppose — 

THE    FIRST    CELESTIAL    FIGURE.       Oh,    RS    to    that,    I 

really  cannot  say.     It's  what  is  called  "Human  na 
ture." 

THE    SECOND   CELESTIAL    FIGURE.       Oh! 

They  walk  off  thoughtfully. 


THE  CHASTE  ADVENTURES 
OF  JOSEPH 

A  COMEDY 


To  EDNA  KENTON 


"The  Chaste  Adventures  of  Joseph"  was  first  produced  at 
the  Liberal  Club,  New  York  City,  in  1914,  with  the  following 
cast: 

Madam  Potiphar Louise  Murphy 

Asenath Marjorie  Jones 

Potiphar  Berkeley  Tobey 

Joseph  Floyd  Dell 

Slave Maurice  Becker 


A  room  in  Potiphar's  house.  It  is  sparingly  fur 
nished  with  a  table,  two  stools,  and  a  couch,  all  in 
the  simpler  style  of  the  early  dynasties.  .  .  .  The 
table,  which  is  set  at  an  angle,  is  piled  with  papyri, 
and  one  papyrus  is  half-unrolled  and  held  open  by 
paper-weights  where  somebody  has  been  reading 
it.  .  .  .  There  is  a  small  window  in  one  wall,  open<- 
ing  on  the  pomegranate  garden.  At  the  back,  be 
tween  two  heavy  pillars,  is  a  doorway.  .  .  .  Two 
women  are  heard  to  pass,  laughing  and  talking, 
through  the  corridor  outside,  and  pause  at  the  door 
way.  One  of  them  looks  in  curiously. 

THE  LADY.  Such  a  lovely  house,  Madam  Poti- 
phar! — But  what  is  this  quiet  room?  Your  hus 
band's  study? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (coming  in)  Oh,  this  is  nothing 
— merely  the  room  of  one  of  the  slaves.  Come,  dear 
Cousin  Asenath,  and  I  will  show  you  the  garden. 
The  pomegranates  are  just  beginning  to  blossom. 

ASENATH.  The  room  of  a  slave?  Indeed!  He 
seems  to  be  an  educated  person! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Educated?  Oh,  yes — he  is  a 
sort  of  book-keeper  for  Potiphar.  At  least,  that  is 
what  he  is  supposed  to  be.  But  he  is  never  on  hand 

17 


18       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

when  he  is  wanted.  If  he  were  here,  we  might  get 
him  to  show  us  through  the  vineyard. 

ASENATH.  Why  not  send  for  him?  I  would  love 
to  see  the  vineyard  before  your  husband  takes  me 
out  in  the  chariot. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (ironically)  Send  for  Joseph? 
It  would  be  useless.  Joseph  has  affairs  of  his  own 
on  hand,  always. 

ASENATH  (startled)  Joseph!     Is  that  his  name? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Yes — "Joseph."  An  ugly, 
foreign-sounding  name,  don't  you  think? 

ASENATH.  It  is  rather  an  odd  name — but  I've 
heard  it  before.  It  was  the  name  of  a  youth  who 
used  to  be  one  of  my  father's  slaves  in  Heliopolis. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Heliopolis  ?  I  wonder — what 
was  he  like? 

ASENATH.  Oh,  he  was  a  pretty  boy,  with  nice 
manners. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  I  thought  for  a  moment  it 
might  be  the  same  one.  But  this  Joseph  is  an  ill- 
favoured  creature — and  insolent.  .  .  .  What  colour 
was  his  hair? 

ASENATH.  I  really  don't  remember.  It's  been  a 
year  since  he  was  there.  .  .  .  You  have  a  lovely 
house,  my  dear.  I'm  so  glad  I  came  to  see  you ! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (also  willing  to  change  the  sub 
ject)  It's  nice  to  see  you  again,  dear  Asenath.  We 
haven't  seen  each  other  since  we  were  little  girls. 
Do  you  remember  how  we  played  together  in  the 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       19 

date-orchard?     And  the  long,  long  talks  we  had? 

ASENATH.  Don't  let's  be  sentimental  about  our 
childhood ! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR..  Do  you  remember  how  we 
talked  about  being  married?  (Asenath  goes  to  the 
little  window.)  We  hated  all  men,  as  I  remember. 

ASENATH.  I  was  eight  years  old  then.  .  .  .  Who 
is  that  handsome  young  man  I  see  out  there? 

MADAM  POTIFHAR.     In  the  garden? 

ASENATH.       Yes. 

Madam  Potiphar  comes  to  the  window. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  That — that  is  the  slave  we 
were  speaking  of.  ... 

ASENATH.  Joseph?  ...  I  wonder  if  it  is  the 
same  one?  .  .  . 

MADAM  POTIFHAR.     Well — and  what  if  it  were? 

ASENATH.  He  was  really  a  very  interesting  young 
man.  .  .  . 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  If  you  are  so  anxious  to  find 
out,  why  don't  you  go  and  talk  to  him? 

ASENATH  (coolly)  I  think  I  shall. 

Sfie  starts  toward  the  door. 

MADAM  POTIPHAB  (shocked)  Asenath !  You,  a 
daughter  of  the  High  Priest  of  Heliopolis — 

ASENATH.  As  such,  I  am  quite  accustomed  to  do 
ing  as  I  please. 

She  goes  out. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (looking  amusedly  after  Tier) 
Silly  little  thing!  (She  stands  there  thinking.) 


20       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

There's  no  doubt  of  it!  Joseph  did  come  from  He- 
liopolis  last  year.  But  what  have  I  to  be  afraid  of? 
(She  sees  a  pair  of  sandals  on  the  floor  by  the  table. 
She  picks  one  of  them  up,  awd  kisses  it  passionately, 
whispering) — Joseph ! 

Enter  Potiphar.  Madam  Potiphar  puts  the  san 
dal  behind  her  back. 

POTIPHAR  (a  dull,  dignified  gentleman)  Oh, 
here's  where  you  are !  I  was  looking  everywhere 
for  you.  But  where's  your  cousin? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  She  will  be  back  in  a  moment. 
I  brought  her  here  to  show  her  the  educated  slave 
of  whom  you  are  so  proud,  at  work.  But  he  is 
away  somewhere,  as  usual. 

POTIPHAR  (defensively)  He  has  other  duties. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     Oh,  yes,  no  doubt ! 

POTIPHAR.     What's  the  matter  now? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Nothing  new.  You  know 
what  I  think  about  this  Joseph  of  yours. 

POTIPHAR  (irritated)  Now,  if  you  are  going  to 
bring  that  subject  up  again — !  Well,  I  tell  you 
flatly,  I  won't  do  it. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     You'd  better  take  my  advice  1 

POTIPHAR.  It's  the  most  unreasonable  thing  I* 
ever  heard  of  I  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  get 
an  efficient  secretary — and  you  want  me  to  get  rid 
of  him.  It's  ridiculous.  What  have  you  against 
Joseph,  anyway? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     I — I  don't  think  he's  honest. 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       21 

POTIPHAR.  Honest !  Who  expects  the  secretary 
of  a  government  official  to  be  honest?  I  don't  want 
an  honest  man  in  charge  of  my  affairs — all  I  want 
is  a  capable  one.  Besides,  how  would  I  know 
whether  he  is  honest  or  not?  I  can't  bother  t#  go 
over  his  accounts,  and  I  couldn't  understand  them 
if  I  did.  Mathematics,  my  dear,  is  not  an  art  that 
high-class  Egyptians  excel  in.  It  takes  slaves  and 
Hebrews  for  that. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Well,  just  because  he  is  able 
to  add  up  a  row  of  figures  is  no  reason  why  he 
should  be  so  high-handed  with  everybody.  One 
would  think  he  was  the  mastey  here,  instead  of  a 
slave. 

POTIPHAR.  A  private  secretary,  my  dear,  is  dif 
ferent  from  an  ordinary  slave.  You  mustn't  expect 
him  to  behave  like  a  doorkeeper.  I  remember  now, 
he  complained  that  you  kept  wanting  him  to  run 
errands  for  you*. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Yes,  and  he  refused — in  the 
most  insolent  manner.  He  is  a  proud  and  schem 
ing  man,  I  tell  you.  I  am  sure  he  is  plotting  some 
villainy  against  you. 

POTIPHAR  (wearily)  Yes,  you  have  said  that  be 
fore. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  I  say  it  again.  Joseph  is  a 
scoundrel. 

POTIPHAR.  You'll  have  to  do  more  than  say  it, 
my  dear.  What  proof  have  you  of  his  villainy? 


22      ADVENTURES   OF   JOSEPH 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  I  think  you  might  trust  to 
my  womanly  intuition. 

POTIPHAR.  Bah!  Joseph  is  going  to  stay!  Do 
you  understand? 

He  pounds  on  the  table  for  emphasis.  Madam 
Potiphar  takes  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  drop 
the  sandal  unnoticed. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Well,  you  needn't  create  a 
domestic  scene.  Asenath  may  return  at  any  mo 
ment. 

POTIPHAR  (gloomily)  I  believe  I'm  to  take  her  out 
in  the  chariot. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  don't  begrudge  my  guest 
that  much  of  your  attention,  do  you?  You  know 
I  cannot  bear  to  ride  behind  those  wild  horses  of 
yours.  And  she  said  she  wanted  to  see  the  city. 

POTIPHAR.  Oh — I'll  go.  But  I  must  see  to  my 
chariot.  (He  claps  his  hands.  A  servant  appears, 
and  bows  deeply.)  Send  Joseph  here  at  once. 

With  another  deep  bow,  the  slave  disappears.  A 
pause. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Now  you  know  what  it  is  to 
have  your  slave  off  attending  to  some  business  of  his 
own  when  you  want  him. 

POTIPHAR  (annoyed)  Where  can  he  be? 

Enter  Joseph. 

JOSEPH  (ignoring  Madam  Potiphar,  and  making 
a  slight  bow  to  Potiphar)  Here  I  am,  sir. 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       23 

POTIPHAR  (after  a  triumphant  glance  at  his  wife) 
Have  my  chariot  made  ready  for  me,  will  you? 

JOSEPH.  It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  do  so, 
sir. 

He  bows  slightly,  and  goes  out. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     Did  you  notice  his  insolence? 

POTIPHAR.  There  you  go  again!  He  said  he 
was  glad  to  do  it  for  me.  What  more  do  you 
want? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     You  are  the  stupidest  man  in 

Egypt. 

POTIPHAR.     Thank  you,  my  dear. 

Joseph  returns. 

POTIPHAR.     Is  the  chariot  ready  so  soon,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.     The  chariot  is  quite  ready. 

POTIPHAR.  Very  well.  (A  pause)  And  are  those 
accounts  -finished  yet,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.  The  accounts  are  quite  finished.  And 
I  would  like  to  suggest,  if  I  may — 

He  is  interrupted  by  the  re-entrance  of  Asenath. 

ASENATH.     What  a  lovely  garden  you  have! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (significantly)  Yes! 

ASENATH.  The  pomegranate  blossoms  are  so 
beautiful ! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  could  hardly  tear  your 
self  away,  could  you? 

POTIPHAR  (with  a  patient  smile)  And  are  you 
ready  for  your  chariot  ride  now? 


24       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

ASENATH.  Oh,  yes !  I  am  so  eager  to  see  the 
city !  But  I  fear  my  hair  needs  a  touch  or  two, 
first.  .  .  . 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  It  is  so  hard  to  keep  one's 
hair  in  order  when  one  walks  in  the  garden.  I  will 
take  you  to  my  room,  dear  Asenath.  (To  Poti- 
pliar)  We  shall  be  ready  presently. 

POTIPHAR.     The  horses  are  waiting! 

ASENATH.     It  won't  take  me  but  a  moment! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Come,  my  dear.  (They  go 
toward  the  door.)  I  am  so  glad  you  liked  our  gar 
den — 

They  go  out. 

POTIPHAR  (turning  to  Joseph)  What  were  you 
going  to  say,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.  You  asked  me  about  my  accounts.  I 
was  about  to  suggest  that  I  show  them  to  you  to 
night,  when  you  return  from  your  ride. 

POTIPHAR  (alarmed)  No!  No!  I  don't  want  to  see 
them.  ...  I  just  want  to  know  that  everything  is 
getting  on  well. 

JOSEPH.     Everything  is  getting  along  quite  well. 

POTIPHAR.  Very  good.  I  have  complete  confi 
dence  in  you.  .  .  .  Joseph — you  have  a  mathemat 
ical  mind ;  how  long  would  you  say  it  would  take  a 
woman  to  do  her  hair? 

JOSEPH.  Not  less  than  half  an  hour,  sir — espe 
cially  if  she  has  something  to  talk  about  with  an 
other  woman  while  she  is  doing  it. 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       25 

POTIPHAR  (surprised)  What  should  they  have  to 
talk  about? 

JOSEPH.     Secrets. 

POTIPHAR.     Secrets  ? 

JOSEPH.  What  things  are  women  especially  in 
terested  in,  sir? 

POTIPHAR.     Dress,  perhaps? 

JOSEPH.     Perhaps. 

POTIPHAR.     Housekeeping? 

JOSEPH.     I  doubt  it,  sir. 

POTIPHAR.  Joseph,  you  perturb  me.  Besides 
food  and  dress,  there  is  only  one  subject,  so  far  as 
I  am  aware,  of  interest  to  women.  I  hope  you  do 
not  imply — 

JOSEPH.  Far  be  it  from  me,  sir,  to  indulge  in 
implications,  with  respect  to  an  honoured  guest,  in 
the  household  in  which  I  am  a  slave. 

POTIPHAR.  Still — it  is  hard  to  tell,  sometimes. 
Women  are  mysterious  creatures.  What  do  you 
think  of  them,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.     I  try  not  to,  sir. 

POTIPHAR.  You  are  a  wise  man.  Yes,  I  suppose 
you  have  your  difficulties,  too.  The  morality  of  the 
slave-girls  is  not  all  it  should  be.  But  if  you  will 
believe  me,  the  morality  of  our  women,  too — 

JOSEPH.     Ah,  sir ! 

POTIPHAR.  Yes,  Joseph,  it  leaves  something  to  be 
desired.  If  you  knew  the  advances  that  have  been 
made  to  me  by  certain  great  ladies — 


26       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

JOSEPH.  If  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  sir, 
you  have  my  sympathy. 

POTIPHAR.  Joseph — women  are  the  very  devil, 
aren't  they? 

JOSEPH.  They  are  a  great  trial,  sir.  One  must 
learn  the  secret  of  dealing  with  them. 

POTIPHAR.     Do  you  know  that  secret? 

JOSEPH.     I  do,  sir. 

POTIPHAR.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  you  really 
do.  You  are  a  remarkable  man.  But  then,  you  have 
a  naturally  cold  disposition.  It  must  come  easy  to 
you. 

JOSEPH.  Not  so  easy  as  you  may  think,  sir. 
Temperamentally,  I  am  very  susceptible  to  the 
charms  of  women. 

POTIPHAR.  Then  you  are  more  remarkable  even 
than  I  thought.  Come,  what  is  your  secret? 

JOSEPH.  It  is  not  the  sort  of  secret  that  one 
gives  away  for  nothing,  sir. 

POTIPHAR.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  display  such  a 
mercenary  disposition,  Joseph.  But  I  see  that  I 
must  come  to  terms  with  you.  How  much  will  you 
take  to  teach  me  your  secret? 

JOSEPH.  This  time,  sir,  I  will  not  be  mercenary. 
I  will  make  you  a  sporting  proposition. 

POTIPHAR  (very  much  interested)  Good!  What 
is  it? 

JOSEPH.     I  will  toss  up  a  coin,  and  let  you  call 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH      27 

it.  If  you  win,  I  will  teach  you  the  secret  for  noth 
ing.  And  if  you  lose — 

POTIPHAR.     And  if  I  lose,  you  keep  your  secret — 

JOSEPH.  Not  merely  that.  If  you  lose,  you  will 
give  me  my  freedom. 

POTIPHAR.  But  I  cannot  get  along  without  you, 
Joseph ! 

JOSEPH.  I  will  continue  to  work  for  you  on  a 
salary  basis. 

POTIPHAR.     Done!     Where  is  your  coin? 

Joseph  takes  a  small  coin  from  his  wallet,  flips 
it  in  the  air,  and  covers  it  with  his  hand  when  it  falls 
on  the  table.  He  looks  up  at  Potiphar. 

POTIPHAR.  Much  depends  on  this.  What  shall 
I  say? 

JOSEPH.     I  know  what  you  will  say,  sir. 

POTIPHAR.     Impossible!     Tails. 

Joseph  uncovers  the  coin.     Potiphar  bends  over  it. 

JOSEPH   (without  looking)   It  is  heads. 

POTIPHAR.  So  it  is!  I  lose — Joseph,  you  are 
a  lucky  man! 

JOSEPH.  Not  at  all,  sir — a  clever  one.  You  see, 
I  knew  just  how  the  coin  would  fall.  I  tossed  it  so 
that  it  would  fall  that  way. 

POTIPHAR.  But — how  did  you  know  what  I  was 
going  to  say? 

JOSEPH.  I  will  explain  to  you.  On  one  side  of 
the  coin  is  a  representation  of  the  present  Pharaoh, 


28      ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

who  has  denied  you  advancement  because  of  his 
daughter's  interest  in  you.  In  consequence,  you 
dislike  any  reminder  of  him — even  on  a  coin.  But  on 
the  other  side  is  a  representation  of  the  goddess  Isis ; 
she  is  your  favourite  goddess — and  moreover,  you 
yourself  have  been  heard  to  remark  that  her  face  and 
figure  resemble  remarkably  that  of  a  certain  great 
lady,  whose  name — is  never  mentioned  when  the  story 
is  told.  Naturally  I  knew  how  you  would  call  the 
coin. 

PO"TIPHAE  (trembling  with  rage)  How  dare  you 
say  such  things!  Do  you  forget  that  I  can  have 
you  beaten  with  rods? 

JOSEPH  (calmly)  Do  you  forget,  sir,  that  I  am 
no  longer  a  slave?  Free  men  are  not  beaten  in 
Egypt. 

POTIPHAR.     Free  ? 

JOSEPH.  Unless  Potiphar  takes  back  his  word. 
It  is  true  that  I  have  no  witnesses  to  it. 

POTIPHAR  (with  great  dignity)  Witnesses  are  un 
necessary.  I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment.  Let 
this  remind  me.  (He  gwes  Joseph  a  ring.)  You 
are  a  free  man.  And  so — what  I  thought  was  an 
insolence  is  merely  a  pleasantry.  But — you  take 
a  quick  advantage  of  your  freedom. 

JOSEPH.     I  accept  the  rebuke. 

POTIPHAR.  And — free  man  or  slave — Joseph,  you 
know  too  much! 

Potiphar   walks   out    of    the   room.  .  .  .  Joseph 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       29 

seats  himself  at  the  table,  and  takes  up  a  scroll  of 
papyrus.  He  reads  a  moment,  then  claps  his  hands. 
A  slave  enters,  stands  before  the  table,  and  bows. 

JOSEPH  (consulting  the  papyrus)  Bear  word  to  the 
overseer  of  the  winepress  that  the  grapes  in  the 
southeast  section  will  be  brought  in  for  pressing 
tomorrow  morning.  .  .  .  Bear  word  to  the  chief  car 
penter  that  a  table  and  two  couches,  of  the  standard 
pattern,  are  wanted — at  once.  .  .  .  Bear  word  to 
the  chief  pastry-cook  that  his  request  for  another 
helper  is  denied. 

Joseph  makes  a  gesture  of  dismissal,  and  the  slave, 
with  a  bow,  goes  out.  Joseph  rises,  and  walking 
around  the  table,  holds  up  his  hand  to  look  at  his 
ring. 

JOSEPH.     Freedom ! 

Madam  Potiphar  strolls  in. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (familiarly)  They  have 
gone.  .  .  . 

Joseph  picks  up  a  scroll  from  the  table. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (sharply)   Joseph! 

JOSEPH  (respectfully)  Yes,  madam. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  I  understood  you  to  say  a 
while  ago  that  your  work  was  quite  finished? 

JOSEPH.     Yes,  madam. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Then  you  have  plenty  of  time 
now.  .  .  . 

JOSEPH.     Yes,  plenty  of  time  for  more  work. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     Well,  you  need  not  begin  im- 


30       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

mediately.     /  want  a  little  of  your  time  just  now. 

JOSEPH.  If  it  is  an  errand,  I  will  call  one  of  the 
slaves. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Do  you  mean — one  of  the 
other  slaves? 

JOSEPH.     I,  madam,  am  no  longer  a  slave. 

He  holds  up  his  hand,  and  looks  at  the  ring. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (incredulous)  How  did  this  hap 
pen?  Did  you  buy  your  freedom,  perchance? 

JOSEPH.  No.  Your  husband  gave  it  to  me  a  mo 
ment  ago. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Gave  it  to  you?  You  mean 
that  you  swindled  him  out  of  it  in  some  way ! 

JOSEPH.     As  you  please,  madam. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Well,  it  is  his  own  affair  if  he 
wishes  to  give  away  such  valuable  property.  Only 
— it  is  difficult  to  adjust  oneself  to  a  change  like  that. 

JOSEPH.  Do  not,  I  pray,  let  the  change  disturb 
you. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  No,  I  insist.  It  is  both  a  duty 
and  a  pleasure.  Since  you  are  now  a  free  man, 
Joseph,  I  propose  that  we  treat  each  other  as  equals 
and  friends. 

JOSEPH.     That  will  be  very  considerate  of  us  both. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Sir,  you  are  insolent.  No,  no 
— I  mean,  my  friend,  you  are  very  rude. 

JOSEPH.  Thank  you  for  making  the  distinction. 
And  now,  since  we  are  to  treat  each  other  as  equals 
and  friends,  I  beg  you — (he  takes  some  small 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH      31 

jects  from  his  wallet  and  holds  them  out  in  his 
hand) — to  take  these  hairpins,  which  are  the  me 
mentos  of  your  various  visits  to  my  room.  As  a 
slave,  no  suspicion,  of  course,  could  attach  to  me  in 
connection  with  a  lady  of  your  rank.  But  as  equals 
and  friends,  we  both  have  our  reputations  to  pre 
serve. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (taking  them)  Thank  you. 
(She  restores  them  to  her  hair.)  I  lose  them  every 
where  I  go.  They  fall  out  every  time  I  speak. 
They  mean  nothing  whatever. 

JOSEPH.  It  is  unnecessary  to  explain  that  to  me. 
I  am  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  are  perfectly  aware  of 
everything,  aren't  you,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.  Everything  that  it  is  to  my  interest  to 
be  aware  of,  madam. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  No — there  is  one  thing  you 
don't  know,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 

JOSEPH.     Proceed,  madam. 

He  takes  the  coin  from  the  table. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (  coming  close  to  him  and  looking 
boldly  into  his  eyes)  Can't  you  guess? 

At  this  moment  Joseph  drops  the  coin  from  his 
hand,  and  it  rolls  away.  Joseph  starts,  looks  after 
it,  and  goes  across  the  room  to  pick  it  up. 

JOSEPH.     One  must  take  care  of  the  small  coins! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (angrily)  Oh! 

She  flings  off  to  the  window.     Joseph  returns  and 


32      ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

seats  himself  on  the  little  stool  at  the  nearer  end 
of  the  table,  with  a  papyrus  in  -front  of  him.  He 
reads  it  in  silence.  Madam  Potipjiar  comes  and 
seats  herself  on  the  table,  and  looks  down  at  him, 
He  continues  to  study  the  papyrus.  She  leans  over 
to  see  what  he  is  doing,  and  then,  as  he  pays  no  at 
tention,  she  turns  so  that  she  is  reclining  prone 
along  its  length,  facmg  him,  her  chin  in  her  hands, 
one  foot  idly  waving  in  the  air. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (gently)  Am  I  bothering  you? 

JOSEPH.     Not  at  all. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     I  like  to  watch  you  work. 

JOSEPH.      I  don't  mind. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  are  very  interesting  to 
look  at,  do  you  know? 

JOSEPH  (absently)  Yes,  I  know. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.       Little  egotist ! 

JOSEPH  (unperturbed)  Yes. 

He  rises  and  seats  himself  at  the  side  of  the  table. 
Propping  his  papyrus  against  the  reclining  body  of 
Madam  Potiphar,  he  takes  a  new  sheet  of  papyrus, 
and  commences  to  copy  a  passage. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (wriggling  about  to  look  at  him) 
What  are  you  copying? 

JOSEPH.  Be  careful.  Don't  jiggle  my  manu 
script,  please! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     I  asked,  what  are  you  copying? 

JOSEPH.  I  am  copying  some  inaccurate  informa 
tion  about  the  climate  of  Egypt,  with  reference  to 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       33 

the  yearly  crop-yield.  ...  I  wonder  if  there  is  any 
one  in  Egypt  who  has  exact  information  on  that 
subject?  .  .  . 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  The  yearly  crop-yield !  What 
do  you  care  about  the  yearly  crop-yield? 

JOSEPH.  Never  mind.  You  wouldn't  understand 
if  I  told  you. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  are  quite  right.  Besides, 
I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  about  crops. 

JOSEPH  (writing)  No.  You  came  here  to.  talk 
about  me. 

MADAM  POTIPHAE.  I  came  here  to  talk  about  my 
cousin  Asenath.  You  knew  she  was  coming — why 
didn't  you  tell  me  you  had  been  in  service  in  her 
father's  household  in  Heliopolis? 

JOSEPH  (writing)  It  wasn't  necessary  for  me  to 
tell  you.  I  knew  she  would. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  No  doubt  you  think  we  sat 
there  all  the  time  she  was  combing  her  hair,  and 
talked  about  you! 

JOSEPH  (writing)  Precisely. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR,  I  suppose  you  know  she  is 
crazy  about  youf 

JOSEPH  (still  writing)  Is  she? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  She  doesn't  put  it  just  that 
way.  She  says  she  takes  an  interest  in  your  future. 

JOSEPH  (continuing  to  work)  She  doesn't  take  half 
as  much  interest  in  it  as  I  do. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     She  told  me  your  romantic 


34       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

story :  how  you  had  been  sold  by  your  brothers  into 
slavery  because  you  wore  a  coat  of  many  colours. 
Joseph :  did  you  wear  a  coat  of  many  colours  ?  That 
seems  a  carious  thing  for  any  one  to  be  angry  about. 

JOSEPH  (not  ceasing  to  copy  ihe  manuscript) 
I  wore  it  only  figuratively — I  am  wearing  it  now. 
And  it  always  makes  you  angry. 

MADAM  POTIPHTAR.  You  mean  the  cloak  of  your 
insolence? 

JOSEPH.      I  mean  the  cloak  of  my  pride. 

MADAM  POTTPHAR.  I  can  sympathize  with  your 
brothers.  .  .  .  Are  you  in  love  with  her,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.     I  am  not. 

He  lias  finished — he  rolls  up  the  papyrus. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     No — so  I  told  her. 

JOSEPH.     But  she  didn't  believe  you. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  seem  to  know  our  conver 
sation  pretty  well. 

JOSEPH.     I  can  imagine  it. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Well,  go  ahead  and  imagine 
it.  What  did  we  say? 

JOSEPH.     You  both  lied  to  each  other. 

MADAM   POTTPHAR.       About  what? 

JOSEPH.     About  me. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (sitting  up)  Your  conceit  is  in 
sufferable  ! 

JOSEPH  (rising  politely)  I  hope  so. 
MADAM  POTIPHAR.     Is  that  a  dismissal? 
JOSEPH.     If  you  will  be  so  kind. 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       35 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.    You  interest  me  more  and  more. 
JOSEPH.     I  feared  as  much. 

MADAM    POTIPHAR.        I    detest    JOU  ! 

JOSEPH.     It  is  one  of  the  symptoms. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Young  man,  do  you  really 
know  nothing  about  love? 

JOSEPH.  If  I  don't,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the 
women  of  Egypt. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  You  are  a  strange  youth.  It 
cannot  be  that  you  love  this  work  you  are  doing.  .  .  . 

JOSEPH.     No,  madam — I  hate  it. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Then  where  do  you  find  your 
happiness?  Tell  me,  Joseph — what  is  the  happiest 
hour  of  the  day  for  you? 

JOSEPH  (with  complete  sincerity)  It  is  that  hour 
when  I  have  finished  the  day's  work,  and  can  lie  down 
upon  my  couch.  It  is  the  hour  before  sleep  comes, 
when  the  room  is  filled  with  moonlight,  and  there 
is  no  sound  except  the  crickets  singing  in  the  orchard, 
and  the  music  of  the  toads  in  the  pool.  The  wind 
of  the  night  comes  in,  cool  with  dew.  Then  I  am 
happy — for  I  can  lie  and  make  plans  for  my  future. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (softly)  And  in  that  hour  of 
moonlight  and  dew  and  the  music  of  the  crickets, 
and  the  ancient  love-song  of  the  toads  in  the  pool, 
when  all  the  earth  abandons  itself  to  love, — what 
would  you  say  to  a  woman  who  stole  in  to  you  like  a 
moonbeam,  like  a  breath  of  the  night-wind,  like  a 
strain  of  music? 


36       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

JOSEPH.  I  would  tell  her — to  go,  as  her  pres 
ence  would  interfere  with  my  plans. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  I  call  the  gods  to  witness. 
A  truly  virtuous  young  man ! 

JOSEPH  (jumping  down  from  the  table,  angrily) 
Virtue !  Virtue !  Oh,  you  stupid  Egyptians !  As 
though  I  cared  about  Virtue! 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Well,  what  in  the  name  of  all 
the  gods  is  it  that  you  care  about? 

JOSEPH  (vehemently)  In  the  name  of  all  the  gods, 
madam,  I  care  about  time. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.  Time!  But  what  can  you  do 
with  time? 

JOSEPH.     What  can  I  do  without  it? 

MADAM  POTIPHAR.     But  I  do  not  understand! 

JOSEPH  (in  a  cold  rage)  Of  course  you  do  not 
understand.  You  are  a  great  lady — and  a  fool.  I 
am  a  wise  man — and  but  an  hour  ago  a  slave.  I 
have  more  intellect  than  all  the  population  of  Egypt 
put  together.  Do  you  expect  me  to  be  content  to 
remain  as  I  am?  I  want  power  and  riches — and  I 
intend  to  achieve  them.  And  I  cannot  achieve  them 
if  I  allow  women  to  waste  my  time. 

MADAM  POTIPHAR  (deeply  angered  at  last)  Very 
well,  I  go — taking  your  secret  with  me !  (She  goes.) 

JOSEPH  (furiously,  to  the  empty  room)  Virtue! 
My  God! 

He  sits  down  at  his  desk  and  writes  vexedly. 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       37 

Night.  The  room  is  filled  with  moonlight.  Joseph 
is  asleep  at  his  desk.  .  .  .  He  suddenly  springs  up  in 
agitation. 

JOSEPH.  Ah!  ...  It  was  only  a  dream!  But 
what  a  dream !  I  thought  I  saw  at  the  door — 
(lie  points)  a  strange  and  terrible  animal!  (There 
is  a  sound  at  the  door,  and  he  starts  back  in  terror.) 
There  it  is  now! 

The  curtains  part,  and  Asenath  enters,  candle  in 
hand. 

ASENATH.  Ssh!  It  is  I — Asenath !  Don't  be 
afraid ! 

Joseph  recovers  his  self -possession,  and  confronts 
her  sternly. 

JOSEPH.     You,  too ! 

ASENATH.     My  dear? 

JOSEPH.  So  you  have  come  to  afflict  me  with  more 
romantic  folly! 

ASENATH  (with  concern)  What  is  the  matter  with 
you,  Joseph? 

JOSEPH.  What  is  the  matter  with  me?  Nothing 
is  the  matter  with  me.  Why  do  you  ask? 

ASENATH.  I  think  you  are  not  well.  You  are 
behaving  queerly.  You  must  have  been  working  too 
hard.  How  are  your  nerves? 

She  approaches  him  solicitously. 

JOSEPH  (retreating  around  the  table)  Leave  me 
alone,  I  tell  you!  Even  in  my  own  room  can  I 
have  no  peace?  Must  I  be  dogged  even  in  my  dreams 


38       ADVENTURES    OF   JOSEPH 

by  shameless  and  unscrupulous  females?     Oh,  unfor 
tunate  youth  that  I  am ! 

ASENATH  (setting  her  candle  down  on  the  table) 
Now  I  know  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Joseph! 
You  have  an  obsession. 

JOSEPH.     What  is  an  obsession? 

ASENATH.  Don't  you  know  what  an  obsession  is? 
(She  sits  down  on  the  stool  at  the  end  of  the  table.) 
Haven't  you  heard  of  the  great  wizard  in  the  land 
of  the  barbarians  who  explains  everything  by  a  new 
magic  ? 

JOSEPH.  Is  he  the  author  of  that  popular  new 
dream-book? 

ASENATH.  Yes.  All  Egypt  is  mad  on  the  subj  ect 
of  dreams.  Everybody,  from  Pharaoh  to  the  fid 
dler's  wife,  is  telling  about  his  latest  dream,  or  lis 
tening  to  some  one  else  tell  his. 

JOSEPH  (sitting  down  on  the  other  stool)  Speaking 
of  dreams,  I  had  a  curious  one  just  before  you  came 
in. 

ASENATH.     Did  you,  Joseph?     Tell  it  to  me. 

She  leans  across  the  table. 

JOSEPH.  I  dreamed — that  I  saw  a  dragon  with 
many  heads.  And  each  head  had  the  face  of  a 
beautiful  woman.  I  was  frightened.  But  I  took 
up  a  sword  and  struck.  And  all  the  heads  except 
one  were  severed.  All  except  one.  And  this  one 
had  upon  it  a  crown  of  iron  and  a  crown  of  gold. 
And  then  the  dragon  took  the  crowns  from  its  head, 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       39 

and  offered  them  to  me !  I  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
.  .  .  And  then  I  awoke. 

ASENATH.  Shall  I  interpret  your  dream  for  you, 
Joseph?  The  dragon  with  the  many  heads  signi 
fies  the  women  of  Egypt,  who  are  all  in  love  with  you. 
The  one  that  remains  when  you  have  struck  off  the 
rest,  is  the  one  who  will  succeed  where  all  the 
others  have  failed.  The  crown  of  iron  signifies 
power.  The  crown  of  gold,  riches.  She  offers  them 
to  you.  .  .  . 

JOSEPH  (leaning  forward)  Asenath — do  you  really 
think  it  means — 

ASENATH  (col(fl,y)  I  really  think  it  means  that 
you  have  a  persecution-mania.  You  imagine  that 
every  woman  you  meet  has  designs  on  you.  ...  I 
suppose  you  think  that  /  came  here  to  make  love  to 
you? 

JOSEPH.  No,  my  dear  Asenath.  I  know  better 
than  that.  When  young  women  come  to  my  room 
at  midnight,  it  is  only  to  borrow  a  book  to  read — 
or  to  ask  my  advice  about  their  personal  affairs.  I 
know,  because  they  tell  me  so.  Which  did  you  come 
for — a  book,  or  advice? 

ASENATH.  Neither.  I  came  to  give  a  book  to  you 
— and  to  give  you  some  advice.  .  .  .  Do  you  re 
member  telling  me,  once  in  Heliopolis,  that  the  man 
who  knew  enough  about  the  climate  of  Egypt  to  pre 
dict  a  famine  could  make  himself  the  richest  man  in 
the  kingdom?  Well — here  is  everything  you  want 


40       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

to  know,  in  an  old  book  I  found  in  my  father's  library 
in  Heliopolis.  This  is  the  book  I  came  to  give 
you. 

She  holds  out  a  scroll. 

JOSEPH  (taking  it)  Dear  Asenath — 

ASENATH  (interrupting  him)  And  now  the  advice. 
It  is  this.  Ally  yourself  to  the  wisest  woman  in  the 
land  of  Egypt — one  who  can  teach  you  to  interpret 
the  dreams  of  Pharaoh.  Then  you  shall  become  the 
second  in  power  in  the  kingdom. 

JOSEPH.  The  second  in  power  in  the  kingdom! 
Asenath — do  not  mock  me.  Can  you  do  this  ? 

ASENATH.     I  swear  that  I  can  and  will ! 

JOSEPH  (overcome)  You  do  love  me.  .  .  . 

ASENATH  (jumping  up)  Love  you!  What  non 
sense  !  (Scornfully)  Love ! 

JOSEPH.     You — you  don't  love  me? 

ASENATH.     Not  in  the  least! 

JOSEPH.  But — but — then  what  are  you  doing  it 
for? 

ASENATH.  I  am  doing  it  for  myself.  Do  you 
think  I  wish  to  stay  in  Heliopolis  all  my  life?  No 
— I  want  power  and  riches — and  I  intend  to  have 
them.  But  I  cannot  get  them,  unfortunately,  with 
out  wasting  my  time  with  some  man. 

JOSEPH.      And  I — ? 

ASENATH.     You  are  the  man. 

JOSEPH.     Admirable ! 

ASENATH.     Hate  me  if  you  will — 


ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH       41 

JOSEPH.  On  the  contrary !  (He  goes  toward 
her.)  Wonderful  creature! 

ASENATH  (retreating)  What  do  you  say? 

JOSEPH.  I  say  that  you  are  a  woman  atter  my 
own  heart.  (He  holds  out  his  arms.  She  retreats 
to  the  other  end  of  the  table.)  I  did  not  think  that 
there  existed  in  all  the  world  a  woman  as  profoundly 
egoistic,  as  unscrupulously  ambitious,  as  myself. 
You  are  my  true  mate.  Come,  we  shall  rule  Egypt 
together ! 

ASENATH  (in  front  of  the  table)  Am  I  to  under 
stand  that  this  is  a  strictly  business  proposition? 

JOSEPH.  No.  It  is  a  declaration  of  love.  I 
adore  you!  I  desire  you!  I  cannot  live  without 
you! 

ASENATH.     Please  don't  be  silly. 

JOSEPH  (hurt)  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  be 
lieve  in  my  love? 

ASENATH.     It  is  a  little  difficult.  .  .   . 

JOSEPH.  You  think  that  I  am  a  hard  man — and 
so  I  am.  But  when  I  look  at  you,  I  tremble  and 
grow  weak.  My  knees  are  become  as  water,  and  the 
blood  roaring  in  my  veins  confuses  me. 

ASENATH.     Can  I,  a  mere  woman,  so  disturb  you? 

JOSEPH.  You  have  more  than  a  mere  woman's 
beauty.  Your  hands  are  lotus  petals.  Your  eyes 
are  silver  fireflies  mirrored  in  a  pool.  Your  breasts 
are  white  birds  nestling  behind  the  leaves  of  a  pome 
granate  tree. 


42       ADVENTURES    OF    JOSEPH 

ASENATH.  You  have  a  smooth  tongue,  Joseph! 
One  would  think  you  really  were  in  love  at  last.  .  .  . 

JOSEPH.  I  love  you  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  You  mean  more  to  me  than  power, 
more  than  riches,  more  than  freedom  itself. 

ASENATH.  I  could  almost  believe  that  you  are  in 
earnest.  .  .  . 

JOSEPH.  Tell  me,  O  lovely  creature  for  whom 
my  soul  and  body  thirst,  how  can  I  prove  my  sin 
cerity?  What  proof  can  I  give  you? 

ASENATH.     You  can  give  me — that  ring  I 

She  points  to  the  ring  which  Potiphar  has  given 
him. 

JOSEPH  (looking  at  her,  then  at  the  ring,  takes  it 
off,  saying) — Freedom! 

He  puts  it  on  her  finger.  He  draws  her  toward 
him.  She  resists.  The  candle  is  knocked  over,  and 
all  is  darkness. 

ASENATH  (m  the  darkness,  faintly)  Joseph! 
Joseph ! 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

A   COMEDY 


To  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK 


"The  Angel  Intrudes"  was  first  produced  by  the  Province- 
town  Players,  New  York  City,  in  1917,  with  the  following 
cast: 

The  Policeman   Abram  Gillette 

The  Angel   James  Light 

Jimmy  Pendleton Justus  Sheffield 

Annabelle  Edna   St.    Vincent  Millay 

Copyright,  1918,  by  Egmont  Arens.  Reprinted  from  The 
Flying  Stag  Plays  for  the  Little  Theatre. 


Washington  Square  by  moonlight.  A  stream,  of 
Greenwich  Villagers  hurrying  across  to  the  Brevoort 
before  the  doors  are  locked.  In  their  wake  a  sleepy 
policeman. 

The  policeman  stops  suddenly  on  seeing  an  Angel 
with  shining  garments  and  great  white  wings,  who 
has  just  appeared  out  of  nowhere. 

THE  POLICEMAN.     Hey,  you ! 

THE  ANGEL  (haughtily,  turning)  Sir!  Are  you 
addressing  me? 

THE  POLICEMAN  (severely)  Yes,  an'  I've  a  good 
mind  to  lock  you  up. 

THE  ANGEL  (surprised  and  indignant)  How  very 
inhospitable  !  Is  that  the  way  you  treat  strangers  ? 

THE  POLICEMAN.  Don't  you  know  it's  agen  the 
law  of  New  York  to  parade  the  streets  in  a  masquer 
ade  costume? 

THE  ANGEL.  No.  I  didn't  know.  You  see,  I've 
just  arrived  this  minute  from  Heaven. 

THE  POLICEMAN.  Ye  look  it.  (Taking  his  arm 
kindly)  See  here,  me  lad,  you've  been  drinkin'  too 
many  of  them  stingers.  Ye'd  better  take  a  taxi  and 
go  home. 

THE  ANGEL.     What!     So  soon? 
45 


46        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

THE  POLICEMAN.  I  know  how  ye  feel.  I've  been 
that  way  meself.  But  I  can't  leave  ye  go  trapesin' 
about  in  skirts. 

THE  ANGEL  (drawing  away)  Sir,  I'm  not  trapesing 
about.  I  am  attending  to  important  business,  and 
I  must  ask  you  not  to  detain  me. 

THE    POLICEMAN     (suspiciously)     Not     SO     fast,    me 

laddie-buck.     What  business  have  you  at  this  hour 
of  the  night?     Tell  me  that. 

THE  ANGEL.  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  It  con 
cerns  a  mortal  called  James  Pendleton. 

THE  POLICEMAN  (genial  again)  Aha!  So  you're 
a  friend  of  Jimmy  Pendleton's,  are  you? 

THE  ANGEL.  Not  exactly.  I  am  his  Guardian 
Angel. 

THE  POLICEMAN.  Well,  faith,  he  needs  one! 
Come,  me  b'y,  I'll  see  ye  safe  to  his  door. 

THE  ANGEL.  Thank  you.  But,  if  you  don't  mind, 
I  prefer  to  go  alone. 

He  turns  away. 

THE  POLICEMAN.     Good  night  to  you,  then. 

He  idly  watches  the  angelic  -figure  walk  away,  and 
then  stares  with  amazement  as  it  spreads  its  wings 
and  soars  to  the  top  of  Washington  Arch.  Pausing 
there  a  moment,  it  soars  again  in  the  air9  and 
is  seen  wafting  its  way  over  the  neighbouring 
housetops  to  the  northeast.  The  policeman  shakes 
his  head  in  disapproval. 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        47 

Jimmy  Pendleton  is  dozing  in  an  easy  chair  before 
the  grate-fire  in  his  studio  m  Washington  Mews. 
A  yellow-backed  French  novel  has  fallen  from  his 
knee  to  the  floor.  It  is  Anatole  France's  "La  Re- 
volte  des  Anges."  A  suitcase  stands  beside  the 
chair.  Jimmy  is  evidently  about  to  go  on  some 
journey. 

A  clock  begins  to  strike  somewhere.  Jimmy  Pen 
dleton  awakes. 

JIMMY.  What  a  queer  dream!  (He  looks  at  his 
watch.)  Twelve  o'clock.  The  taxi  ought  to  be 
here.  (He  takes  two  tickets  from  his  pocket,  looks 
at  them,  and  puts  them  back.  Then  he  commences 
to  pace  nervously  up  and  down  the  room,  muttering 
to  himself) — Fool!  Idiot!  Imbecile!  (He  is  not, 
so  that  you  could  notice  it,  any  of  these  things.  He 
is  a  very  handsome  man  of  forty.  There  is  the  blast 
of  an  auto-horn  outside.  He  makes  an  angry  ges 
ture.  )  Too  late !  That's  the  taxi.  ( But  he  stands 
uncertainly  m  the  middle  of  the  floor.  There  is  a 
loud  pounding  cm  the  knocker.)  Yes,  yest 

He  makes  a  movement  toward  the  door,  when  it 
suddenly  opens,  and  a  lovely  lady  enters.  He  stares 
at  her  in  surprise. 

JIMMY.      Annabelle ! 

Annabette  is  little.  Annabelle's  petulant  upturned 
lips  are  rosebud  red.  Annabelle' s  round  eyes  are 
baby-blue.  Annabelle  is — young. 

ANNABELLE.     Yes !  It's  me!     (There  is  a  tiny  lisp 


48        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

in  AnnabeUe's  speech.)  I  got  tired  of  waiting,  and 
the  door  was  unlocked,  so  I  came  right  in. 

JIMMY.     Well ! 

ANNABELLE  (  hurt )  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ? 

JIMMY.  Fm — delighted.  But — but — I  thought 
we  were  to  meet  at  the  station. 

ANNABELLE.        So  WC  Were. 

JIMMY.     You  haven't  changed  your  mind? 

ANNABELLE.       No.    .    .    . 

JIMMY.     Er — good. 

ANNABELLE,       But 

JIMMY.     Yes — ? 

ANNABELLE.  I  got  to  wondering.  .  .  .  (She  drifts 
to  the  easy  chair  in  front  of  the  fire.) 

JIMMY.  Wondering'  .  .  .  about  what?  (He 
looks  at  his  watch.) 

ANNABELLE.        About   loVC.    .    .    . 

JIMMY.  Well  .  .  .  (He  lights  a  cigarette) — it's 
a  subject  that  can  stand  a  good  deal  of  wondering 
about.  I've  wondered  about  it  myself. 

ANNABELLE.  That's  just  it — you  speak  so  cyni 
cally  about  it.  I  don't  believe  you're  in  love  with 
me  at  all ! 

JIMMY.  Nonsense!  Of  course  I'm  in  love  with 
you. 

ANNABELLE  (sadly)  No  you're  not. 

JIMMY  (angrily)  But  I  tell  you  I  am! 

ANNABELLE.       No.    .    .    . 

JIMMY.     Foolish  child! 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        49 

ANNABELLE.  Well,  let's  not  quarrel  about  it. 
We'll  talk  about  something  else. 

JIMMY  (vehemently)  What  do  you  suppose  this 
insanity  is  if  it  is  not  love?  What  do  you  imagine 
leads  me  to  this  preposterous  escapade,  if  not  that 
preposterous  passion? 

ANNABELLE.     That  isn't  the  way  /  love  you. 

JIMMY.     Then  why  do  you  come  with  me? 

ANNABELLE.     Perhaps  I'm  not  coming. 

JIMMY.  Yes  you  are.  It's  foolish — mad — wicked 
— but  you're  coming.  (She  begins  to  cry  softly.) 
If  not — ten  minutes  away  is  safety  and  peace  and 
comfort.  Shall  I  call  a  taxi  for  you?  (She  shakes 
her  head.)  No,  I  thought  not.  Oh,  it's  love  all 
right.  .  .  .  Antony  and  Cleopatra  defying  the  Mann 
Act!  Romance!  Beauty!  Adventure!  How  can 
you  doubt  it? 

ANNABELLE.     I  hate  you  ! 

JIMMY  (cheerfully)  I  don't  mind.  (Smttirg) 
I  rather  hate  you  myself.  And  that's  the  final  proof 
that  this  is  love. 

ANNABELLE  (sobbing)  I  thought  love  was  some 
thing  quite — different! 

JIMMY.  You  thought  it  was  beautiful.  It  isn't. 
It's  just  blithering,  blathering  folly.  We'll  both 
regret  it  tomorrow. 

ANNABELLE.       /  WOn't ! 

JIMMY.  Yes  you  will.  It's  human  nature.  Face 
the  facts. 


SO        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

ANNABELLE  (tearfully)  Facing  the  facts  is  one 
thing  and  being  in  love  is  another. 

JIMMY.  Quite  so.  Well,  how  long  do  you  think 
your  love  for  me  will  last? 

ANNABELLE.        For   CVCF  ! 

JIMMY.  H'm !  I  predict  that  you  will  fall  in  love 
with  the  next  man  you  meet. 

ANNABELL.E.     I  think  you're  perfectly  horrid. 

JIMMY.  So  do  I.  I  disapprove  of  myself  vio 
lently.  I'm  a  doddering  lunatic,  incapable  of  think 
ing  of  anything  but  you.  I  can't  work.  I  can't 
eat,  I  can't  sleep.  I'm  no  use  to  the  world.  I'm 
not  a  man,  I'm  a  mess.  I'm  about  to  do  something 
silly  because  I  can't  do  anything  else. 

ANNABELLE  (pouting)  You've  no  respect  for  me. 

JIMMY.  None  whatever:  I  love  you.  And  I'm 
going  to  carry  you  off. 

ANNABELLE.     You're  a  brute. 

JIMMY.  Absolutely.  I'd  advise  you  to  go 
straight  home. 

ANNABELLE  (defiantly)  Perhaps  I  shall! 

JIMMY.  Then  go  quick.  (He  takes  out  his 
watch.)  In  one  minute,  if  you  are  still  here,  I  shall 
pick  you  up  and  carry  you  off  to  South  America. 
— Quick !  there's  the  door ! 

ANNABEKLE  (family)  I — I  want  to  go.  .  .  . 

JIMMY.  Well,  why  don't  you?  .  .  .  Thirty  sec 
onds! 

ANNABELLEl,       I 1   Can't! 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        51 

JIMMY  (shutting  his  watch)  Time's  up.  The  die 
is  cast!  (He  lifts  her  from  the  chair.  She  clings 
to  him  helplessly.)  My  darling!  My  treasure! 
My  beloved ! — Idiot  that  I  am ! 

He  kisses  her  fiercely. 

ANNABELLE  (struggling  in  his  arms)  No!  No! 
No !  Stop ! 

JIMMY.     Never ! 

ANNABELLE.     Stop !     Please !     Please!     Oh!  .  .  . 

The  light  suddenly  goes  out,  and  an  instant  later 
blazes  out  again,  revealing  the  Angel,  who  has  sud 
denly  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  two 
of  them  stare  at  the  apparition. 

THE  ANGEL  (politely)  I  hope  I  am  not  intruding? 

JIMMY.     Why — why — not  exactly ! 

ANNABELLE  (IT*  his  arms,  indignantly)  Jimmy! 
who  is  that  man? 

JIMMY  (becoming  aware  of  her  and  putting  her 
down  carefully)  I — why — the  fact  is,  I  don't — 

THE  ANGEL.  The  fact  is,  madam,  I  am  his  Guard 
ian  Angel. 

ANNABELLE.     An  Angel!     Oh! 

THE  ANGEL.     Tell  me,  have  I  intruded? 

ANNABELLE.     No,  not  at  all! 

THE  ANGEL,  Thank  you  for  reassuring  me.  I 
feared  for  a  moment  that  I  had  made  an  inopportune 
entrance.  I  was  about  to  suggest  that  I  withdraw 
until  you  had  finished  the — er — ceremony — which  I 
seem  to  have  interrupted. 


52        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

JIMMY  (surprised)  But  wasn't  that  what  you 
came  for — to  interrupt? 

THE  ANGEL.     I  beg  your  pardon ! 

JIMMY  (bewilderedly)  I  mean — if  you  are  iny 
Guardian  Angel,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  must 
have  come  to — to  interfere! 

THE  ANGEL.  I  hope  you  will  not  think  I  would  be 
capable  of  such  presumption. 

JIMMY  (puzzled)  You  don't  want  to — so  to  speak 
— reform  me? 

THE  ANGEL.  Not  at  all.  Why,  I  scarcely  know 
you! 

JIMMY.  But  you're  my — my  Guardian  Angel,  you 
say? 

THE  ANGEL.  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure.  But  the  rela 
tion  -of  angelic  guardianship  has  for  some  hundreds 
of  years  been  a  purely  nominal  one.  We  have  come 
to  feel  that  it  is  best  to  allow  mortals  to  attend  to 
their  own  affairs. 

JIMMY  (abruptly)  Then  what  did  you  come  for? 

THE  ANGEL.  For  a  change.  One  becomes  tired 
of  familiar  scenes.  And  I  thought  that  perhaps  my 
relationship  to  you  might  serve  in  lieu  of  an  intro 
duction.  I  wanted  to  be  among  friends. 

JIMMY.      Oh — I  see. 

ANNABELLE.  Of  course.  We're  delighted  to  have 
you  with  us.  Won't  you  sit  down?  (She  leads  the 
way  to  the  -fire.) 

THE   ANGEL   (perching   on   "back   of   one   of   the 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        53 

big  chairs)  If  you  don't  mind!  My  wings,  you 
know. 

JEMMY  (hesitantly)  Have  a  cigarette? 

THE  ANGEL.  Thank  you.  (He  takes  one.)  I 
am  most  anxious  to  learn  the  more  important  of 
your  earthly  arts  and  sciences.  Please  correct  me 
if  I  go  wrong.  This  is  my  first  attempt,  remember. 

He  blows  out  a  puff  of  smoke. 

ANNABELLE  (from  the  settle)  You're  doing  it  very 
nicely. 

THE  ANGEL,.     It  is  incense  to  the  mind. 

ANNABELLE  (laughing,  blowing  a  series  of  smoke 
rings)  You  must  learn  to  do  it  like  this ! 

THE  ANGEL  (in  awe)  That  is  too  wonderful  an  art. 
I  fear  I  can  never  learn  it ! 

ANNABELLE.     I  will  teach  you. 

THE  ANGEL  (earnestly)  If  you  were  my  teacher,  I 
think  I  could  learn  anything. 

ANNABELLE  (giggles  charmingly). 

JIMMY  (embarrassed)  Really,  Annabelle  .  .   .    ! 

ANNABELLE.     What's  the  matter? 

JIMMY.  Ordinarily  I  wouldn't  mind  your  flirting 
with  strangers,  but  .  .  . 

ANNABELLE  (indignantly)  Jimmy !     How  can  you? 

THE  ANGEL.  It  was  my  fault,  I'm  sure — if  fault 
there  was.  But  what  is  it — to  flirt?  You  see,  I 
wish  to  learn  everything. 

ANNABELLE.     I  hope  you  never  learn  that. 

THE  ANGEL.     I  put  myself  in  your  hands. 


54.        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

JIMMY.     Er — would  you  like  a — drink? 

THE  ANGEL.  Thank  you.  I  am  very  thirsty. 
(Taking  the  glass.)  This  is  very  different  from 
what  we  have  in  Heaven.  (He  tastes  it.  A  look  of 
gratified  surprise  appears  on  his  face.)  And  much 
better!  (He  drains  the  glass  and  hands  it  back.) 
May  I  have  some  more? 

ANNABELLE.     Be  careful ! 

THE  ANGEL.     What  should  I  be  careful  of? 

ANNABELLE.  Don't  drink  too  much  of  that — if 
it's  the  first  time. 

THE  ANGEL.     Why  not  ?     It  is  an  excellent  drink. 

JIMMY  (laughing)  The  maternal  instinct!  She  is 
afraid  you  may  make  yourself — ridiculous. 

THE  ANGEL.  Angels  do  not  care  for  appearances. 
(He  stands  up  magnificently  in  the  chair ',  towering 
above  them.)  Besides  .  .  .  (refilling  his  glass)  I 
feel  that  you  do  an  injustice  to  this  drink.  Already 
it  has  made  a  new  being  of  me.  (He  looks  at  Anna- 
belle.)  I  feel  an  emotion  that  I  have  never  known 
before.  If  I  were  in  heaven,  I  should  sing. 

ANNABELLE.     Oh!     Won't  you  sing? 

THE  ANGEL.  The  fact  is,  I  know  nothing  but 
hymns.  And  I'm  tired  of  them.  That  was  one  rea 
son  why  I  left  heaven.  And  this  robe.  .  .  .  (He 
descends  to  the  floor,  viewing  his  garment  with  dis 
approval.)  Have  you  an  extra  suit  of  clothes  you 
could  lend  me  ? 

JIMMY   (reflectively)    Yes,   I  think  I  have  some 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        55 

things  that  might  fit.  (The  Angel  waits.)  Do  you 
want  them  now?  I'll  look. 

He  goes  into  the  bedroom.  .  .  .  The  Angel  looks 
at  Annabelle  until  his  gaze  becomes  insupportable, 
and  she  covers  her  eyes.  Then  he  comes  over  to  her 
side. 

THE  ANGEL  (gravely)  I  am  very  much  afraid  of 
you.  (He  takes  her  hands  in  his.) 

ANNABELLE  (smiling)   One  would  never  guess  it  1 

THE  ANGEL.  I  am  more  afraid  of  you  than  I  was 
of  God.  But  even  though  I  fear  you,  I  must  come 
close  to  you,  and  touch  you.  I  feel  a  strange,  new 
emotion  like  fire  in  my  veins.  This  world  has  be 
come  beautiful  to  me  because  you  are  in  it.  I  want 
to  stay  here  so  that  I  may  be  with  you.  .  .  . 

ANNABELLE  (shaken,  but  doubting)  For  how  long? 

THE   ANGEL.        For  ever,    .     .    . 

ANNNABELLE  (in  his  arms)  Darling! 

THE  ANGEL.  I  am  so  ignorant!  There  is  some 
thing  I  want  to  do  right  now,  only  I  do  not  know 
how  to  go  about  it  properly. 

He  bends  shyly  toward  her  lips. 

ANNABELLE.     I  will  teach  you. 

She  kisses  him. 

THE  ANGEL.     Heaven  was  nothing  to  this. 

They  kiss  again.  .  .  .  Enter  Jimmy,  with  an  old 
suit  of  clothes  over  his  arm.  He  pauses  in  dumb- 
founderment.  At  last  he  regains  his  voice. 

JIMMY.     Well ! 


56        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

They  look  up.     Neither  of  them  is  perturbed. 

THE  ANGEL  (blandly)  Has  something  happened  to 
annoy  you?  (Jimmy  shakes  the  clothes  at  him  in 
an  outraged  gesture.)  Oh,  my  new  costume.  Thank 
you  so  much! 

He  takes  the  clothes  from  Jimmy,  and  examines 
them  with  interest. 

JIMMY  (bitterly,  to  Annabelle)  I  suppose  I've  no 
right  to  complain.  You  can  make  love  to  anybody 
you  like.  In  fact,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  predicted  this  very  thing.  I  said  you'd  fall  in 
love  with  the  next  man  you  met.  So  it's  off  with 
the  old  love,  and — 

ANNABELLE  (calmly)  I  have  never  been  in  love  be 
fore. 

JIMMY.  The  fickleness  of  women  is  notorious.  It 
is  exceeded  only  by  their  mendacity.  But  Angels 
have  up  to  this  time  stood  in  good  repute.  Your 
conduct,  sir,  is  scandalous.  I  am  amazed  at  you. 

THE  ANGEL.  It  may  be  scandalous,  but  it  should 
not  amaze  you.  It  has  happened  too  often  before. 
I  could  quote  you  many  texts  from  learned  theolog 
ical  works.  "And  the  sons  of  God  looked  at  the 
daughters  of  men  and  saw  that  they  were  fair." 
But  even  if  it  were  as  unusual  as  you  imagine,  that 
would  not  deter  me. 

JIMMY.  You  are  an  unscrupulous  wretch.  If 
these  are  the  manners  of  Heaven,  I  am  glad  it  is  so 
far  away,  and  means  of  communication  so  difficult. 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        57 

A  few  more  of  you  would  corrupt  the  morals  of 
five  continents.  You  are  utterly  depraved — Here! 
what  are  you  doing? 

THE  ANGEL.  I  am  taking  off  my  robes,  so  as  to 
put  on  my  new  clothes. 

JIMMY.  Spare  the  common  decencies  at  least, 
Go  in  the  other  room. 

THE  ANGEL.     Certainly,  if  that  is  the  custom  here. 

With  the  clothes  over  his  arm,  Tie  goes  into  the 
bedroom. 

JIMMY  (sternly,  to  Annabelle)  And  now  tell  me, 
what  do  you  mean  by  this? 

ANNABELLE  ( sim ply)'  We  are  in  love. 

JIMMY.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  throw  me 
over  for  that  fellow? 

ANNABELLE.       Why    not  ? 

JIMMY.  What  good  is  he?  All  he  can  do  is  sing 
'hymns.  In  three  months  he'll  be  a  tramp. 

ANNABELLE.  I  don't  care.  And  he  won't  be  a 
tramp.  I'll  look  after  him. 

JIMMY  (sneeringly)  The  maternal  instinct!  Well, 
take  care  of  him  if  you  like.  But  of  course  you 
know  that  in  six  weeks  he'll  fall  in  love  with  some 
body  else? 

ANNABELLE.  No  he  won't.  I'm  sure  that  I  am 
the  only  girl  in  the  world  to  him. 

JIMMY.  Of  course  you're  the  only  girl  in  the 
world  to  him — now.  You're  the  only  one  he's  ever 
seen.  But  wait  till  he  sees  the  others!  Six  weeks? 


58        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

On  second  thought  I  make  it  three  days.  Immortal 
love!  (He  laughs.) 

ANNABELLE.  What  difference  does  it  make?  You 
don't  understand.  Whether  it  lasts  a  day  or  a 
year,  while  it  lasts  it  will  be  immortal. 

The  Angel  enters,  dressed  in  Jimmy9 s  old  clothes, 
and  carrying  his  wings  in  his  hands.  He  seems 
exhilarated. 

THE  ANGEL.       HOW  do  I  look  ? 

JIMMY.  It  is  customary  to  wear  one's  tie  tucked 
inside  the  vest. 

THE  ANGEL  (flinging  the  ends  of  the  gorgeous 
necktie  over  his  shoulder)  No!  Though  I  have  be 
come  a  man,  I  do  not  without  some  regret  put  on 
the  dull  garb  of  mortality.  I  would  not  have  my 
form  lose  all  its  original  brightness.  Even  so  it  is 
the  excess  of  glory  obscured. 

ANNABELLE  (coming  over  to  him)  You  are  quite 
right,  darling. 

She  t iicks  the  tie  inside  his  vest. 

THE  ANGEL.  Thank  you,  beloved. — And  now 
these  wings !  Take  them,  and  burn  them  with  your 
own  sweet  hands,  so  that  I  can  never  leave  you,  even 
if  I  would. 

ANNABELLE.  No !  I  would  rather  put  them  away 
for  you  in  a  closet,  so  that  you  can  go  and  look  at 
them  any  time  you  want  to,  and  see  that  you  have 
the  means  to  freedom  ready  to  your  hand.  I  shall 
never  hold  you  against  your  will.  I  do  not  want  to 


THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES        5§ 

burn  your  wings.  I  really  don't!  But  if  you  in 
sist—! 

She  takes  the  wings,  and  approaches  the  grate. 

JIMMY  (to  the  Angel)  Don't  let  her  do  it!  Fool! 
You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing.  Listen  to  me ! 
You  think  that  she  is  wonderful — superior — divine. 
It  is  only  natural.  There  are  moments  when  I  have 
thought  so  myself.  But  I  know  why  I  thought  so, 
and  you  have  yet  to  learn.  Keep  your  wings,  my 
friend,  against  the  day  of  your  awakening — the  day 
when  the  glamour  of  sex  has  vanished,  and  you  see 
in  her,  as  you  will  see,  an  inferior  being,  with  a 
weak  body,  a  stunted  mind,  devoid  of  creative  power, 
almost  devoid  of  imagination,  utterly  lacking  in  criti 
cal  capacity — a  being  who  does  not  know  how  to 
work,  nor  how  to  talk,  nor  even  how  to  play ! 

Annabelle,  dropping  the  wings  on  the  hearth, 
stares  at  him  in  speechless  anger. 

THE  ANGEL.  Sir!  Do  you  refer  in  these  vulgar 
and  insulting  terms  to  the  companion  of  my  soul, 
the  desire  of  my  heart,  the  perfect  lover  whose  lips 
have  kindled  my  dull  senses  to  ecstasy? 

JIMMY.  I  do.  Remember  that  I  know  her  better 
than  you  do,  young  man.  Take  my  advice  and  leave 
her  alone.  Even  now  it  is  not  too  late !  Save  your 
self  from  this  folly  while  there  is  still  time! 

THE    ANGELu        Never ! 

JIMMY.  Then  take  these  tickets — and  I  hope 
that  I  never  see  either  of  you  again ! 


60        THE    ANGEL    INTRUDES 

He  holds  out  the  tickets.  Annabelle,  after  d 
pause,  steps  forward  and  takes  them. 

ANNABELLE.     That  is  really  sweet  of  you,  Jimmy  I 

The  blast  of  an  auto-horn  is  heard  outside. 

JIMMY  (bitterly)  And  there's  my  taxi.  Take  that, 
too. 

THE  ANGEL.     Farewell ! 

He  opens  the  door.  AnnabeUe,  at  his  side,  turns 
and  blows  Jimmy  a  kiss.  Stonily,  Jimmy  watches 
them  go  out.  Then  he  picks  up  his  suitcase  and 
goes,  with  an  air  of  complete  finality,  into  the  other 
room. 

There  is  a  moment9 s  silence,  and  then  the  door 
opens  softly,  and  the  Angel  looks  in,  enters  surrepti 
tiously,  seizes  up  the  wings,  and  with  them  safely 
clasped  to  his  bosom,  vanishes  again  through  the 
door. 


LEGEND 

A  ROMANCE 


To  KIRAH  MARKHAM 


"Legend"  was  first  produced,  under  the  title,  "My  Lady's 
Mirror,"  at  the  Liberal  Club,  in  1915,  with  the  following  cast: 

He  Clement   Wood 

She  .  ....  Kirah  Markham 


A  small  room,  with  a  little  table  in  the  centre, 
and  a  chair  on  either  side  of  it.  At  the  back  is 
the  embrasure  of  a  French  window  opening  on  a 
balcony.  In  another  watt  is  the  outer  door.  The 
room  is  lighted  by  tall  candles.  There  is  an  image 
of  the  Virgin  in  a  niche  in  the  corner. 

HE  (a  cloaked  figure,  standing  with  hat  and  stick 
in  one  hand  and  holding  in  the  other  a  large  square 
parcel)  First  of  all,  I  have  a  present  for  you. 

SHE  (where  she  has  just  risen  when  he  entered) 
A  present!  Oh,  thank  you,  Luciano! 

HE.  It  is  not  me  you  have  to  thank  for  this 
present!  (He  puts  it  on  the  table.)  It  is  some 
one  else.  I  am  only  the  bearer. 

SHE.  Who  can  it  be?  Who  would  send  me  a 
present  ? 

HE.  What  a  question,  Donna  Violante !  Not  a 
man  in  Seville,  not  a  man  in  Spain,  but  would  send 
you  gifts  if  he  dared.  It  is  not  "Who  would?"  but 
"Who  could?" 

SHE.  No  man,  as  you  know,  Luciano,  has  that 
right. 

HE.  Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  your  husband, 
Violante?  He,  surely,  has  that  right!  And  it  is 

63 


64  LEGEND 


thoughtful  of  him,  too,  to  pause  in  the  midst  of  his 
antiquarian  researches  in  Rome,  to  think  of  his 
young  wife  and  send  her  a  gift.  He  appreciates  you 
more  than  I  imagined.  Under  his  grizzled  and  sci 
entific  exterior,  he  is  a  human  being.  I  respect  him 
for  it. 

He  puts  down  his  hat  and  stick. 

SHE.  My  husband !  But  why,  then,  do  you  bring 
it? 

HE.  I  was  commissioned  by  him  to  do  so.  I 
received  the  package  this  morning,  with  a  letter. 
Shall  I  read  it  to  you? 

He  takes  out  the  letter. 

SHE.  Yes.  ...  But  why  should  he  not  send  it 
direct  to  me? 

HE.  Your  husband  is  a  man  of  curious  and  per 
verse  mind,  Violante,  and,  in  spite  of  his  interest  in 
dead  things,  not  without  some  insight  into  the  living 
soul.  I  think  it  gave  him  an  obscure  pleasure  to 
think  of  me  the  bearfer  of  his  gift.  But  shall  we  let 
him  speak  for  himself? 

He  opens  the  envelope. 

SHE.     Yes.     Read  the  letter. 

She  sits  down  to  listen. 

HE  (reading)  "My  dear  young  friend:  I  am 
sending  you  a  package,  which  I  beg  you,  as  a  favour, 
to  deliver  to  Donna  Violante,  my  wife.  It  contains 
a  gift  of  an  unusual  sort,  which  you  as  well  as  she 
will  appreciate.  As  you  know,  it  is  the  unusual 


LEGEND  65 


which  interests  me — the  unusual  and  the  old.  And 
yet,  antiquarian  though  I  am,  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
understand  the  mind  of  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
especially  when  that  young  woman  is  my  wife.  I 
have  found  her  a  mirror.  Yes,  a  mirror!  Under 
this  name  it  seems  commonplace  enough,  but  when 
you  have  seen  it  I  do  not  think  you  will  say  so.  It 
is  not  the  kind  of  mirror,  that  is  ordinarily  found  in 
a  lady's  boudoir.  Yet  it  will  give  to  her  a  faithful 
reflection  of  her  loveliness  as  it  is.  in  truth.  I  found 
it — this  will  interest  you — in  the  Catacombs.  You 
would  not  think  the  early  Christians  had  so  much 
vanity!  Yet  it  was  a  mirror  into  which  the  virgin- 
martyrs-to-be  of  the  time  of  Nero  looked  each  day. 
As  they  looked,  let  Donna  Violante  look.  Say  to  her 
from  me — 'Look  long  and  well  into  this  mirror, 
and  profit  by  what  you  see.' — Humbly  your  friend, 
Don  Vincenzio."  ...  Is  not  that  a  pleasant  letter? 

He  restores  the  letter  to  his  pocket. 

SHE.  There  is  something  in  it  that  makes  me 
shiver.  .  .  .  Let  us  look. 

She  takes  the  paper  from  the  box  and  is  about  to 
open  it  when  he  stops  her. 

HE.     No.     Not  now.     I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

SHE  (lapsing  into  a  hostile  coldness)  Yes. 

HE.  You  know  what  I  have  to  say.  I  have  said 
it  so  often.  I  shall  say  it  once  more. 

SHE  (appealingly)  Luciano! 

HE.     No,   let   me    speak.     You    are    not   happy. 


66  LEGEND 


You  do  not  love  your  husband.  And  you  are  too 
young  and  beautiful  to  live  without  love. 

SHE.     Please ! 

HE.  I  love  you.  And  you  love  me.  Why  do 
you  not  surrender  yourself  to  love? 

SHE.  Why  do  you  say  such  things?  They  hurt 
me. 

HE.  They  are  reality.  Does  reality  hurt  you? 
Are  you  living  in  a  shadow-world,  that  you  should 
flinch  from  the  hard  touch  of  truth?  I  say  it  again. 
I  love  you. 

SHE.  Before  you  started  to  talk  like  that,  we  were 
so  happy  together. 

HE.  Before  I  spoke  out  the  truth  of  my  own 
heart  and  yours.  You  didn't  want  it  spoken  out. 
You  didn't  want  to  be  told  you  were  in  love.  It 
was  a  thing  too  harsh  and  sweet.  It  frightened  you 
to  think  of.  You  wanted  us  to  sit  for  ever,  like  two 
lovers  painted  on  a  fan,  fixed  in  an  everlasting  and 
innocuous  bliss. 

SHE.  Well,  you  have  succeeded  in  spoiling  that. 
You  have  made  me  unhappy,  if  that  gives  you  any 
pleasure. 

HE.  It  was  not  I  who  have  spoiled  your  shadow- 
world.  It  is  love,  coming  like  the  dawn  on  wings  of 
flame,  and  shattering  the  shadows  with  spears  of  gold. 
It  is  love  that  has  made  you  unhappy.  You  tremble 
at  its  coming,  and  try  to  flee.  But  the  day  of  love 
has  come  for  you. 


LEGEND  67 


SHE.     Ah,  if  it  had  only  come  before — before.   .  .   . 

HE.  Before  you  married  that  perverse  old  man. 
If  it  had  come  while  you  were  still  a  maiden,  free, 
with  a  right  to  give  yourself  up  to  itf  Ah,  you 
would  have  given  yourself  gloriously !  It  is  beauti 
ful — but  it  is  a  dream,  and  the  time  calls  for  a 
deed.  We  love  each  other.  We  can  take  our  happi 
ness  now.  Will  you  do  it?  Will  you  come  away 
with  me? 

SHE.     No. 

HE.  Then  if  you  cannot  take  your  happiness, 
give  me  mine.  If  you  cannot  be  a  woman,  be  an 
angel,  and  lean  down  from  your  dream  heaven  to 
slake  my  earthly  thirst. 

SHE.     No. 

HE.  No  angel?  Then  a  goddess!  You  want  to 
be  worshipped.  You  want  to  be  adored.  I  will 
worship  you,  but  not  from  afar,  I  will  adore  you 
in  my  own  fashion.  I  will  praise  you  without  words, 
and  you  shall  be  the  answer  to  my  prayer.  Will 
you? 

SHE.     No. 

HE.  "No."  "No."  "No."  How  did  your  lips 
learn  to  say  that  word  so  easily?  They  are  not 
made  to  say  such  a  word.  They  are  too  young, 
too  red,  to  say  "No"  to  Life.  When,  you  say  that 
word,  the  world  grows  black.  The  stars  go  out,  the 
leaves  wither,  the  heart  stops  beating.  It  is  a  word 
that  kills.  It  is  the  word  of  Death.  Dare  you 


68  LEGEND 


say  it  again?  Answer  me,  do  we  love  each  other? 
.  .  .  Silence. 

SHE.     I  think  ...  I  am  going  ...  to  cry. 

HE.  And  tears.  Tears  are  a  slave's  answer. 
Speak.  Defend  yourself.  Why  do  you  stay  here? 
Why  do  you  deny  yourself  happiness?  Why  won't 
you  come  with  me? 

SHE.     I  cannot. 

HE.  Always  the  same  phrase  that  means  nothing. 
Ah,  Violante,  lady  of  few  words,  you  know  how  to 
baffle  argument.  If  I  could  only  make  you  speak! 
If  I  could  only  see  what  the  thoughts  are  that  darken 
your  will! 

SHE.     Don't. 

HE.  By  God!  I  wonder  that  I  don't  hate  you 
instead  of  love  you.  There  is  something  ignobly 
feminine*  about  you.  You  are  incapable  of  action — 
almost  incapable  of  speech.  Your  lips  are  shut  tight 
against  kisses,  and  when  they  open  to  speak,  all  that 
they  say  is  "Don't." 

SHE.  What  do  you  expect  to  gain  by  scolding 
me? 

HE.  I  gain  the  satisfaction  of  telling  you  the 
truth — that  you  have  the  most  cowardly  soul  that 
was  ever  belied  by  a  glorious  body.  Who  would 
think  to  look  at  you  that  you  were  afraid? 

SHE.      It's  no  use  bullying  me. 

HE.  I  know  that,  Violante.  It's  the  poorest  way 
to  woo  a  woman.  But  I  have  tried  every  other  way. 


LEGEND  69 


I  have  pleaded,  and  been  answered  with  silence.  I 
have  wooed  you  with  caresses,  and  been  answered  with 
tears. 

SITE.     I  am  sorry,  Luciano. 

HE.     I  want  you  to  be  glad. 

SHE.  I  am  glad — glad  of  you — in  spite  of  every 
thing. 

HE*  Gladness  is  something  fiercer  than  that. 
You  are  too  tame.  Oh,  if  I  could  reach  and  rouse 
your  soul ! 

SHE.     My  soul  is  yours  already.   ... 

HE.     And  your  body  .   .  .    ? 

SHE.     It  is  impossible. 

HE.  No.  It  isn't  impossible.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  is  impossible.  This — for  me  to  go  on  loving 
you  and  despising  you.  ...  I  came  here  today  to 
make  one  last  appeal  to  you.  I  don't  mean  it  as  a 
threat.  But  I  am  going  away  tonight  for  ever — 
with  you,  or  without  you.  You  must  decide. 

SHE  (rising)  But — I  don't  want  you  to  go,  Lu 
ciano  ! 

•HE.  You  will  miss  me,  I  know.  But  don't  think 
too  much  of  that.  You  will  find  a  new  friend — if 
you  decide  against  me. 

SHE.     And  I  must  decide  now? 

HE.     Yes — now. 

SHE.     But  how  can  I?     Oh,  Luciano! 

HE.  I  know  it  is  hard.  But  I  will  not  make  it 
harder.  Violante :  I  have  sought  to  appeal  to 


70  LEGEND 


your  emotion  when  my  appeal  to  your  will  was  in 
vain.  But  tonight  I  will  leave  you  to  make  your 
own  decision.  You  must  come  to  me  freely  or  not 
at  all.  There  must  be  no  regrets. 

SHE.     I  cannot  do  it. 

HE.  If  you  say  that  when  I  return  I  will  accept 
it  as  a  final  answer.  I  am  going  out  on  the  balcony 
— for  a  long  minute.  And  while  I  am  gone  you  must 
decide  what  to  do.  Will  you? 

SHE.     Yes. 

HE  (turning  at  the  window)  And  if  while  I  am 
gone  you  wish  to  recall  my  arguments  to  your  mind 
— (he  points  to  the  box  on  the  table) — look  in  your 
mirror  there.  Your  beauty  will  plead  for  me.  As 
Don  Vincenzio  said:  Look  long  and  well  into  that 
mirror,  lady,  and  profit  by  what  you  see. 

He  goes  out.  .  .  .  She  looks  after  him,  and  when 
he  is  gone  holds  out  her  arms  towards  the  door. 
She  makes  a  step  towards  it,  and  then  stops,  her 
hands  falling  to  her  sides.  Her  head  droops  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then  is  slowly  lifted.  Her 
eyes  sweep  the  room  imploringly,  and  rest  on  the 
image  of  the  Virgm.  She  goes  over  to  it  and  kneels. 

SHE.  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  give  me  a  sign.  I 
do  not  know  what  to  do.  Help  me.  I  must  decide. 
Love  has  entered  my  heart,  and  it  may  be  that  I 
cannot  be  a  good  woman  any  longer.  You  will  be 
kind  to  me,  and  pity  me,  and  send  me  a  sign.  Per 
haps  you  will  let  me  have  my  lover,  for  you  are  kind. 


LEGEND  71 


She  crosses  herself,  rises,  and  looks  around.  She 
sees  the  bov  on  the  table,  and  puts  her  hand  to  her 
face  with  a  gesture  of  sudden  thought.  She  smiles. 

Perhaps  that  is  the  sign ! 

She  goes  to  the  box  and  touches  it. 

He  said  it  would  plead  for  him.  .  .  . 

She  opens  it — and  starts  back  with  a  gesture  and 
a  cry. 

It  is  the  sign! 

With  one  hand  over  her  heart  she  approaches  it 
again.  She  takes  out  of  the  box  and  puts  on  the 
table  a  skull.  .  .  .  She  stares  at  it  a  long  while, 
and.  then  turns  with  a  shiver. 

How  cold  it  is  here !     Where  are  the  lights  ? 

She  is  compelled  to  look  again. 

I  had  never  thought  of  death.  My  heart  is  coldj 
too.  The  c*hill  of  the  grave  is  on  me.  Was  I  ever 
in  love?  It  seems  strange  to  remember.  What 
is  his  name?  I  almost  have  forgotten.  And  he  is 
waiting  for  me.  I  will  show  him  this.  We  should 
have  looked  at  it  together.  .  .  . 

A  silence,  as  her  mood  changes. 

So  he  had  planned  it !  He  wanted  to  cast  the  chill 
of  the  grave  upon  our  love.  He  saw  it  all  as  though 
he  had  been  here.  He  sent  us — this !  How  well  he 
knew  me — better  than  I  knew  myself.  Ari  old  man's 
cunning!  To  stop  my  pulses  throbbing  with  love, 
and  put  out  the  fever  in  my  eyes.  A  trick!  Yes, 
but  it  suffices.  One  look  into  the  eyeless  face  of 


72  LEGEND 


Death  turns  me  to  ashes.  I  am  no  longer  fit  for 
love.  .  .  . 

She  turns  to  the  door. 

Why  does  he  not  come  for  his  answer? 

She  looks  for  a  lingering  moment  toward  the  door, 
and  then  turns  back  again  to  the  table.  Her  mood 
changes  again. 

A  present  from  a  husband  to  a  wife ! 

She  takes  it  up,  in  her  hands. 

A  lady's  mirror !  What  was  it  that  he  said?  "Look 
long  and  well  into  this  mirror,  and  profit  by  what  you 
see."  My  mirror  from  the  Catacombs'! 

She  sinks  into  a  chair,  holding  it  between  her  hands 
as  it  rests  on  the  table:  Her  tone  is  trance-like. 

I  look.  I  see  the  end  of  all  things.  I  see  that  noth 
ing  matters.  Is  that  your  message?  Why  do  you 
grin  at  me?  You  laugh  to  think  that  my  face  is  like 
your  face — or  will  be  soon — in  a  few  years — to 
morrow.  You  mock  at  me  for  thinking  I  am  alive. 
I  am  dead,  you  say.  Dead,  like  you.  Am  I? 

She  rises. 

No.  Not  yet.  For  a  moment — a  little  lifetime — I 
have  life.  I  have  lips  and  eyelids  made  for  kisses. 
I  have  hands  that  burn  to  give  caresses,  and  breasts 
that  ache  to  take  them.  I  have  a  body  made  to 
suffer  the  deep  stings  of  love.  This  flesh  of  mine 
shall  be  a  golden  web  woven  of  pain  and  joy. 

She  takes  up  the  skull  again. 

You  were  alive  once,  and  a  virgin-martyr?     You 


LEGEND  73 


denied  yourself  love?  You  sent  away  your  lover? 
No  wonder  you  speak  so  plainly  to  me  now.  Back, 
girl,  to  your  coffin! 

She  puts  the  skull  in  the  box,  and  closes  the  lid 
softly.  She  turns  to  the  door  and  waits.  At  last 
he  enters. 

HE  (dejected)  You  have — decided? 

SHE.     Yes.     I  have  decided. 

HE.     I  knew.     It  is  no  use.     I  will  go. 

He  turns  to  the  door. 

SHE.  Wait!  (He  turns  back  incredulously.)  I 
have  decided  to  go  with  you.  (He  stands  stock-still.) 
Don't  you  understand?  Take  me.  I  am  yours. 
Don't  you  believe  it? 

HE.      Violante ! 

SHE.  It  is  hard  to  believe,  isn't  it.  I  have  been  a 
child.  Now  I  am  a  woman.  And  shall  I  tell  you 
how  I  became  a  woman?  (She  points  to  the  box  on 
the  table.)  I  looked  in  my  mirror  there.  I  saw  that 
I  was  beautiful — and  alive.  Tell  me,  am  I  not 
beautiful — and  alive? 

HE.  There  is  something  terrible  about  you  at  this 
moment.  I  am  almost  afraid  of  you. 

SHE.     Kiss  me,  Luciano  ! 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

A   COMEDY 


To  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 


"  Sweet-and-Twenty"  was  first  produced  by  the  Province- 
town  Players,  New  York  City,  in  1918,  with  the  following  cast: 

The  Young  Woman  Edna  St.   Vincent  Millay 

The  Young  Man Ordway  Tead 

The  Agent   Otto  Liveright 

The  Guard  Louis  Ell 

The  cherry-orchard  scene  was  effectively  produced  on  a  small 
stage  by  a  blue-green  back-drop  with  a  single  conventionalized 
cherry-branch  painted  across  it,  and  two  three-leaved  screens 
masking  the  wings,  painted  in  blue-green  with  a  spray  of  cherry 
blossoms. 

Copyright,  1921,  by  Stewart  $  Kidd  Company.  Reprinted 
from  Stewart  Kidd  Modern  Plays  Series.  No  performance, 
either  professional  or  amateur,  may  be  given  without  the 
written  permission  of  the  author  or  his  representatives,  Stewart 
Kidd,  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 


A  corner  of  the  cherry  orchard  on  the  country 
place  of  the  late  Mr.  Boggley,  now  on  sale  and 
open  for  inspection  to  prospective  buyers.  The 
cherry  orchard,  now  in  full  bloom,  is  a  very  pleasant 
place.  There  is  a  green-painted  rustic  bench  beside 
tJie  path.  .  .  . 

A  young  woman,  dressed  in  a  light  summer  frock 
and  carrying  a  parasol,  drifts'  in  from  the  back. 
She  sees  the  bench,  comes  over  to  it  and  sits  down 
with  an  air  of  petulant  weariness. 

A  handsome  young  man  enters  from  tlie  right.  He 
stops  short  in  surprise  on  seeing  the  charming 
stranger  who  lolls  upon  the  bench.  He  takes  off  his 
hat. 

•HE.     Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon! 

SHE.  Oh,  you  needn't!  I've  no  right  to  be  here, 
either. 

HE  (coming  over  to  her)  Now  what  do  you  mean 
by  that? 

SHE.  I  thought  perhaps  you  were  playing  truant, 
as  I  am. 

HE.     Playing  truant? 

SHE.     I  was  looking  at  the  house,  you  know.     And 

I  got  tired  and  ran  away. 

77 


78          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

HE.  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  so  did  I.  It's  dull 
work,  isn't  it? 

SHE.  I've  been  upstairs  and  down  for  two  hours. 
That  family  portrait  gallery  finished  me.  It  was  so 
old  and  gloomy  and  dead  that  I  felt  as  if  I  were  dead 
myself.  I  just  had  to  do  something.  I  wanted  to 
jab  my  parasol  through  the  window-pane.  I  under 
stood  just  how  the  suffragettes  felt.  But  I  was 
afraid  of  shocking  the  agent.  He  is  such  a  meek 
little  man,  and  he  seemed  to  think  so  well  of  me.  If 
I  had  broken  the  window  I  would  have  shattered 
his  ideals  of  womanhood,  too,  I'm  afraid.  So  I 
just  slipped  away  quietly  and  came  here. 

HE.  I've  only  been  there  half  an  hour  and  we — 
I've  only  been  in  the  basement.  That's  why  our 
tours  of  inspection  didn't  bring  us  together  sooner. 
I've  been  cross-examining  the  furnace.  Do  you 
understand  furnaces?  (He  sits  down  beside  her) 
I  don't. 

SHE.     Do  you  like  family  portraits?     I  hate  'em! 

HE.  What !  Do  the  family  portraits  go  with  the 
house? 

SHE.  No,  thank  heaven.  They've  been  bequeathed 
to  some  museum,  I  am  told.  They're  valuable 
historically — early  colonial  governors  and  all  that 
sort  of  stuff.  But  there  is  some  one  with  me  who 
— who  takes  a  deep  interest  in  such  things. 

HE  (frownmg  at  a  sudden  memory)  Hm.     Didn't 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          79 

I  see  you  at  that  real  estate  office  in  New  York  yester 
day? 

SHE.     Yes.     He  was  with  me  then. 

HE  (compassionately)  I — I  thought  I  remembered 
seeing  you  with — with  him. 

SHE  (cheer-fully)  Isn't  he  just  the  sort  of  man  who 
would  be  interested  in  family  portraits? 

HE  (confused)  Well — since  you  ask  me — 

SHE.  Oh,  that's  all  right.  Tubby's  a  dear,  in 
spite  of  his  funny  old  ideas.  I  like  him  very  much. 

HE  (gulping  the  pill)  Yes.   .  .  . 

SHE.  He's  so  anxious  to  please  me  in  buying  this 
house.  I  suppose  it's  all  right  to  have  a  house,  but 
I'd  like  to  become  acquainted  with  it  gradually. 
I'd  like  to  feel  that  there  was  always  some  corner 
left  to  explore — some  mystery  saved  up  for  a  rainy 
day.  Tubby  can't  understand  that.  He  drags  me 
everywhere,  explaining  how  we'll  keep  this  and  change 
that — dormer  windows  here  and  perhaps  a  new  wing 
there.  ...  I  suppose  you've  been  rebuilding  the 
house,  too? 

HE.  No.  Merely  decided  to  turn  that  sunny 
south  room  into  a  study.  It  would  make  a  very 
pleasant  place  to  work.  But  if  you  really  want  the 
place,  I'd  hate  to  take  it  away  from  you. 

SHE.  I  was  just  going  to  say  that  if  you  really 
wanted  it,  I'd  withdraw.  It  was  Tubby's  idea  to  buy 
it,  you  know — not  mine.  You  do  want  it,  don't  you  ? 


80         SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

HE.  I  can't  say  that  I  do.  It's  so  infernally  big. 
But  Maria  thinks  I  ought  to  have  it.  (Explanato 
rily) — Maria  is — 

SHE  (gently)  She's — the  one  who  is  interested  in 
furnaces.  I  understand.  I  saw  her  with  you  at  the 
real-estate  office  yesterday.  Well — furnaces  are 
necessary,  I  suppose.  (There  is  a  pause,  which  she 
breaks  suddenly.)  Do  you  see  that  bee? 

HE.     A  bee? 

He  follows  her  gaze  up  to  a  cluster  of  blossoms. 

SHE.  Yes — there?  (Affectionately) — Thie  ras 
cal!  There  he  goes. 

Their  eyes  follow  the  flight  of  the  bee  across  the 
orchard.  There  is  a  silence.  Alone  together  be 
neath  the  blossoms,  a  spell  seems  to  have  fallen  upon 
them.  She  tries  to  think  of  something  to  say — and 
at  last  succeeds. 

SHE.  Have  you  heard  the  story  of  the  people  who 
used  to  live  here? 

HE.     No ;  why  ? 

SHE.  The  agent  was  telling  us.  It's  quite  ro 
mantic — and  rather  sad.  You  see,  the  man  that 
built  this  house  was  in  love  with  a  girl.  He  was 
building  it  for  her — as  a  surprise.  But  he  had  neg 
lected  to  mention  to  her  that  he  was  in  love  with  her. 
And  so,  in  pique,  she  married  another  man,  though 
she  was  really  in  love  with  him.  The  news  came  just 
when  he  had  finished  the  house-  He  shut  it  up  for  a 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          81 

year  or  two,  but  eventually  married  some  one  else, 
and  they  lived  here  for  ten  years — most  unhappily. 
Then  they  went  abroad,  and  the  house  was  sold.  It 
was  bought,  curiously  enough,  by  the  husband  of  the 
girl  he  had  been  in  love  with.  They  lived  here  till 
they  died — hating  each  other  to  the  end,  the  agent 
says. 

HE.  It  gives  me  the  shivers.  To  think  of  that 
house,  haunted  by  the  memories  of  wasted  love! 
Which  of  us,  I  wonder,  will  have  to  live  in  it?  I 
don't  want  to. 

SHE  (prosaically)  Oh,  don't  take  it  so  seriously  as 
all  that.  If  one  can't  live  in  a  house  where  there's 
been  an  unhappy  marriage,  why,  good  heavens,  where 
is  one  going  to  live?  Most  marriages,  I  fancy,  are 
unhappy. 

HE.     A  bitter  philosophy  for  one  so  young  and — - 

SHE.  Nonsense!  But  listen  to  the  rest  of  the 
story.  The  most  interesting  part  is  about  this  very 
orchard. 

HE.     Really ! 

SHE.  Yes.  This  orchard,  it  seems,  was  here  be 
fore  the  house  was.  It  was  part  of  an  old  farm 
where  he  and  she — the  unhappy  lovers,  you  know — 
stopped  one  day,  while  they  were  out  driving,  and 
asked  for  something  to  eat.  The  farmer's  wife  was 
busy,  but  she  gave  them  each  a  glass  of  milk,  and 
told  them  they  could  eat  all  the  cherries  they  wanted. 


82          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

So  they  picked  a  hatful  of  cherries,  and  ate  them, 
sitting  on  a  bench  like  this  one.  And  then  he  fell 
in  love  with  her.  .  .  . 

HE.      And  .  .  .  didn't  tell  her  so.   ... 

She  glances  at  him  in  alarm.  His  self-possession 
has  vanished.  He  is  pale  and  frightened,  but  there 
is  a  desperate  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  some  unknown 
power  were  forcing  him  to  do  something  very  rash. 
In  short,  he  seems  like  a  young  man  who  has  just 
fallen  in  love. 

SHE  (hastily)  So  you  see  this  orchard  is  haunted, 
too! 

HE.  I  feel  it.  I  seem  to  hear  the  ghost  of  that 
old-time  lover  whispering  to  me.  .  .  . 

SHE  (provocatively)  Indeed!     What  does  he  say? 

HE.  He  says:  "I  was  a  coward;  you  must  be 
bold.  I  was  silent ;  you  must  speak  out." 

SHE  (mischievously)  That's  very  curious — because 
that  old  lover  isn't  dead  at  all.  He's  a  Congressman 
or  Senator  or  something,  the  Agent  says. 

HE  (earnestly)  It's  all  the  same.  His  youth  is 
dead;  and  it  is  his  youth  that  speaks  to  me. 

SHE  (quickly)  You  mustn't  believe  all  that  ghosts 
tell  you. 

•HE.  Oh,  but  I  must.  For  they  know  the  folly  of 
silence — the  bitterness  of  cowardice. 

SHE.  The  circumstances  were — slightly — differ 
ent,  weren't  they? 

HE  (stubbornly)  I  don't  caret 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          83 

SHE  (soberly)  You  know  perfectly  well  it's  no  use. 

HE.     I  can't  help  thatl 

SHE,.  Please!  You  'simply  mustn't!  It's  !dis- 
gracef  ul ! 

HE.     What's  disgraceful? 

SHE  (confused)  What  you  are  going  to  say. 

HE  (simply)  Only  that  I  love  you.  What  is 
there  disgraceful  about  that?  It's  beautiful! 

SHE.     It's  wrong. 

HE.     It's  inevitable. 

SHE.  Why  inevitable?  Can't  you  talk  with  a 
girl  in  an  orchard  for  half  an  hour  without  falling  in 
love  with  her? 

HE.     Not  if  the  girl  is  you. 

SHE.     But  why  especially  me? 

HE.  I  don't  know.  Love — is  a  mystery.  I  only 
know  that  I  was  destined  to  love  you. 

SHE.     How  can  you  be  so  sure? 

HE.  Because  you  have  changed  the  world  for  me. 
It's  as  though  I  had  been  groping  about  in  the  dark, 
and  then — sunrise!  And  there's  a  queer  feeling 
here.  (He  puts  his  hand  on  his  heart.)  To  tell 
the  honest  truth,  there's  a  still  queerer  feeling  in  the 
pit  of  my  stomach.  It's  a  gone  feeling,  if  you  must 
know.  And  my  knees  are  weak.  I  know  now  why 
men  used  to  fall  on  their  knees  when  they  told  a 
girl  they  loved  her;  it  was  because  they  couldn't 
stand  up.  And  there's  a  feeling  in  my  feet  as  though 
I  were  walking  on  air.  And — 


84          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

SHE  (faintly}  That's  enough! 

HE.  And  I  could  die  for  you  and  be  glad  of  the 
chance.  It's  perfectly  absurd,  but  it's  absolutely 
true.  I've  never  spoken  to  you  before,  and  heaven 
knows  I  may  never  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  you 
again,  but  I'd  never  forgive  myself  if  I  didn't  say 
this  to  you  now.  I  love  you!  love  you!  love  you! 
Now  tell  me  I'm  a  fool.  Tell  me  to  go.  Anything 
— I've  said  my  say.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  speak? 

SHE.  I — I've  nothing  to  say — except — except 
that  I — well — (almost  inaudibly)  I  feel  some  of  those 
symptoms  myself. 

HE  (triumphantly)  You  love  me! 

SHE.     I — don't  know.     Yes.     Perhaps. 

HE.     Then  kiss  me  ! 

SHE  (doubtfully)  No.  .   .  . 

HE.     Kiss  me! 

SHE  (tormentedly)  Oh,  what's  the  use? 

HE.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  care.  I  only  know 
that  we  love  each  other. 

SHE  (after  a  moment's  hesitation,  desperately) 
I  don't  care,  either !  I  do  want  to  kiss  you. 

She  does.  .  .  .  He  is  the  first  to  awake  from  the 


HE.     It  is  wrong — 

SHE  (absently)  Is  it? 

HE.     But,  oh  heaven!  kiss  me  again!     (She  does.) 

SHE.     Darling ! 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          85 

HE.  Do  you  suppose  any  one  is  likely  to  come  this 
way? 

SHE.     No. 

HE  (speculatively)  Your  husband  is  probably  still 
in  the  portrait  gallery.  .  .  . 

SHE.  My  husband!  (Drawing  away)  What 
do  you  mean?  (Thoroughly  awake  now)  You 
didn't  think — ?  (She  jumps  up  and  laughs  convul 
sively.)  You  thought  poor  old  Tubby  was  my  hus 
band? 

HE  (staring  up  at  her  bewildered)  Why,  isn't  he 
your  husband? 

SHE  (scornfully)  No !  !     He's  my  uncle ! 

HE.     Your  unc — 

SHE.  Yes,  of  course!  (Indignantly)  Do  you 
suppose  I  would  be  married  to  a  man  that's  fat  and 
bald  and  forty  years  old? 

HE  (distressed)  I — I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did 
think  so. 

SHE.  Just  because  you  saw  me  with  him?  How 
ridiculous ! 

HE.  It  was  a  silly  mistake.  But — the  things 
you  said !  You  spoke  so — realistically — about  mar 
riage. 

SHE.  It  was  your  marriage  I  was  speaking  about. 
(  With  hasty  compunction)  Oh,  I  beg  your — 

HE.  My  marriage  !  (He  rises.)  Good  heavens  ! 
And  to  whom,  pray,  did  you  think  I  was  married? 


86         SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

(A  light  dawning)  To  Maria?  Why,  Maria  is  my 
aunt! 

SHE.     Yes — of  course.     How  stupid  of  me. 

HE.  Let's  get  this  straight.  Are  you  married  to 
anybody? 

SHE.  Certainly  not.  As  if  I  would  let  myself  be 
made  love  to,  if  I  were  a  married  woman ! 

HE.  Now  don't  put  on  airs.  You  did  something 
quite  as  improper.  You  made  love  to  a  married  man. 

SHE.     I  didn't. 

HE.  It's  the  same  thing.  You  thought  I  was  mar 
ried. 

SHE.     But  you  aren't. 

HE.  No.  I'm  not  married.  And — and — you're 
not  married.  (The  logic  of  the  situation  striking 
him  all  of  a  sudden)  In  fact — ! 

He  pauses,  rather  alarmed. 

SHE.     Yes? 

HE.  In  fact — well — there's  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  we  shouldn't  make  love  to  each  other! 

SHE  (equally  startled)  Why — that's  so! 

HE.     Then — then — shall  we? 

SHE  (sitting  down  and  looking  demurely  at  her 
toes)  Oh,  not  if  you  don't  want  to! 

HE  (adjusting  himself  to  the  situation)  Well — 
under  the  circumstances — I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
gin  by  asking  you  to  marry  me.  .  .  . 

SHE  (languidly,  with  a  provoking  glance)  You 
don't  seem  very  anxious  to. 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          87 

HE  (feeling  at  a  disadvantage)  It  isn't  that — 
but — well — 

SHE  (lightly)  Well  what? 

HE.     Dash  it  all,  I  don't  know  your  name ! 

SHE  (looking  at  him  with  mild  curiosity)  That 
didn't  seem  to  stop  you  a  while  ago.  .  .  . 

HE  (doggedly)  Well,  then — will  you  marry  me? 

SHE  (promptly)  No. 

HE  (surprised)  No!     Why  do  you  say  that? 

SHE  (coolly)  Why  should  I  marry  you?  I  know 
nothing  about  you.  I've  known  you  for  less  than  an 
hour. 

HE  (sardonically)  That  fact  didn't  seem  to  keep 
you  from  kissing  me. 

SHE.  Besides — I  don't  like  the  way  you  go  about 
it.  If  you'd  propose  the  same  way  you  made  love  to 
me,  maybe  I'd  accept  you. 

HE.  All  right.  (Dropping  on  one  knee  before 
her)  Beloved!  (An  awkward  pause)  No,  I 
can't  do  it.  (He  gets  up  and  distractedly  dusts  off 
his  knees  with  his  handkerchief.)  I'm  very  sorry. 

SHE  (with  calm  inquiry)  Perhaps  it's  because  you 
don't  love  me  any  more? 

HE  (fretfully)  Of  course  I  love  you! 

SHE  (coldly)  But  you  don't  want  to  marry  me. 
...  I  see. 

HE.  Not  at  all!  I  do  want  to  marry  you. 
But— - 

SHE.     Well? 


88          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

HE.  Marriage  is  a  serious  matter.  Now  don't 
take  offense !  I  only  meant  that — well —  ( He  starts 
again.)  We  are  in  love  with  each  other,  and 
that's  the  important  thing.  But,  as  you  said,  we 
don't  know  each  other.  I've  no  doubt  that  when 
we  get  acquainted  we  will  like  each  other  better  still. 
But  we've  got  to  get  acquainted  first. 

SHE  (rising)  You're  just  like  Tubby  buying  a 
house.  You  want  to  know  all  about  it.  Well!  I 
warn  you  that  you'll  never  know  all  about  me.  So 
you  needn't  try. 

HE  (apologetically)  It  was  your  suggestion. 

SHE  (impatiently)  Oh,  all  right!  Go  ahead  and 
cross-examine  me  if  you  like.  I'll  tell  you  to  begin 
with  that  I'm  perfectly  healthy,  and  that  there's  no 
T.  B.,  insanity,  or  Socialism  in  my  family.  What 
else  do  you  want  to  know? 

HE  (hesitantly)  Why  did  you  put  in  Socialism, 
along  with  insanity  and  T.  B.  ? 

SHE.  Oh,  just  for  fun.  You  aren't  a  Socialist, 
are  you? 

HE.  Yes.  (Earnestly)  Do  you  know  what  So 
cialism  is? 

SHE  (innocently)  It's  the  same  thing  as  Anarchy, 
isn't  it? 

HE  (gently)  No.  At  least  not  my  kind.  I  be 
lieve  in  municipal  ownership  of  street  cars,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  I'll  give  you  some  books  to  read. 

SHE.     Well,  I  never  ride  in  street  cars,  so  I  don't 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          89 

care  whether  they're  municipally  owned  or  not.  By 
the  way,  do  you  dance? 

HE.     No. 

SHE.  You  must  learn  right  away.  I  can't  bother 
to  teach  you  myself,  but  I  know  where  you  can  get 
private  lessons  and  become  really  good  in  a  month. 
It  is  stupid  not  to  be  able  to  dance. 

HE  (as  if  he  had  tasted  quinine)  I  can  see  myself 
doing  the  tango  I  Grr ! 

SHE.     The  tango  went  out  long  ago,  my  dear. 

HE  (with  great  decision)  Well — I  won't  learn  to 
dance.  You  might  as  well  know  that  to  begin  with. 

SHE.  And  I  won't  read  your  old  books  on  So 
cialism.  You  might  as  well  know  that  to  begin 
with! 

HE.  Come,  come !  This  will  never  do.  You  see, 
my  dear,  it's  simply  that  I  cant  dance,  and  there's 
no  use  for  me  to  try  to  learn. 

SHE.  Anybody  can  learn.  I've  made  expert 
dancers  out  of  the  awkwardest  men ! 

HE.  But,  you  see,  I've  no  inclination  toward  danc 
ing.  It's  out  of  my  world. 

SHE.  And  I've  no  inclination  toward  municipal 
owners-hip.  It's  out  of  my  world ! 

HE.  It  ought  not  to  be  out  of  the  world  of  any  in 
telligent  person. 

SHE  (turning  her  back  on  him)  All  right — if  you 
want  to  call  me  stupid! 

HE   (turning  and  looking  away  meditatively)   It 


90          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

appears  that  we  have  very  few  tastes  in  common. 

SHE  (tapping  her  foot)  So  it  seems. 

HE.  If  we  married  we  might  be  happy  for  a 
month — 

SHE.     Perhaps. 

They  remain  with  their  backs  to  each  other. 

Hfi.     And   then — the    old    story.     Quarrels.   .  .  . 

SHE.     I  never  could  bear  quarrels.  .  .  . 

HE.     An  unhappy  marriage.  .  .  . 

SHE  (realizing  it)  Oh! 

HE  (hopelessly  turning  toward  her)  I  can't  marry 
you. 

SHE  (recovering  quickly  and  facing  him  with  a 
smile)  Nobody  asked  you,  sir! 

HE  (with  a  gesture  of  finality)  Well — there  seems 
to  be  no  more  to  say. 

SHE  (sweetly)  Except  good-bye. 

HE  (ftrmly)  Good-by,  then. 

He  holds  out  his  hand. 

SHE  (taking  it)  Good-bye! 

HE  (taking  her  other  hand — after  a  pause,  help 
lessly)  Good-bye! 

SHE  (drowning  in  his  eyes)  Good-bye! 

They  cling  to  each  other,  and  are  presently  lost 
in  a  passionate  embrace.  He  breaks  loose  and 
stamps  away,  then  turns  to  her. 

HE.     Damn  it  all,  we  do  love  each  other! 

SHE  (wiping  her  eyes)  What  a  pity  that  is  the  only 
taste  we  have  in  common ! 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          91 

HE.     Do  you  suppose  that  is  enough? 

SHE.      I  wish  it  were ! 

HE.     A  month  of  happiness — 

SHE.     Yes ! 

HE.     And  then — wretchedness. 

SHE.     No — never ! 

HE.     We  mustn't  do  it. 

SHE.     I  suppose  not. 

HE.     Come,  let  us  control  ourselves. 

SHE.     Yes,  let's.      (They  take  hands  again.) 

HE  (with  an  effort)  I  wish  you  happiness.  I — I'll 
go  to  Europe  for  a  year.  Try  to  forget  me. 

SHE.  I  shall  be  married  when  you  get  back — per 
haps. 

HE.  I  hope  it's  somebody  that's  not  bald  and  fat 
and  forty.  Otherwise — ! 

SHE.  And  you — for  goodness  sake !  marry  a  girl 
that's  very  young  and  very,  very  pretty.  That  will 
help. 

HE.  We  mustn't  prolong  this.  If  we  stay  to 
gether  another  minute — 

SHE.     Then  go! 

HE.     I  can't  go! 

SHE.     You  must,  darling!     You  must! 

HE.     Oh,  if  somebody  would  only  come  along! 

They  are  leaning  toward  each  other,  dizzy  upon 
the  brink  of  another  kiss,  when  somebody  does  come 
— a  short,  mild-lookmg  man  in  a  derby  hat.  There 
is  an  odd  gleam  in  his  eyes. 


92         SWEET-AND-TWENTY 


INTRUDER  (startled)  Excuse  me! 

They  turn  and  stare  at  him,  but  their  hands  cling 
fast  to  each  other. 

SHE  (faintly)  The  Agent! 

THE  AGENT  (in  despairing  accents)  Too  late  !  Too 
late! 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.     No  !     Just  in  time  ! 

THE  AGENT.     Too  late,  I  say  !     I  will  go. 

He  turns  away. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.     No  !    Stay  ! 

THE  AGENT.  What's  the  use?  It  has  already  be 
gun.  -What  good  can  I  do  now? 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  I'll  show  you  what  good  you 
can  do  now.  Come  here  !  (The  Agent  approaches.), 
Can  you  unloose  my  hands  -from  those  of  this  young 
woman  ? 

THE  YOUNG  WOMAN  (haughtily,  releasing  herself 
and  walking  away)  You  needn't  trouble  !  I  can  do 
it  myself. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  Thank  you.  It  was  utterly 
beyond  my  power.  (To  the  Agent)  —  -Will  you 
kindly  take  hold  of  me  and  move  me  over  there? 
(The  Agent  propels,  him  away  -from  the  girl.) 
Thank  you.  At  this  distance  I  can  perhaps  say 
farewell  in  a  seemly  and  innocuous  manner. 

THE  AGENT.  Young  man,  you  will  not  say  fare 
well  to  that  young  lady  for  ten  days  —  and  perhaps 
never  ! 

THE   YOUNG   WOMAN.       What  ! 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          93 

THE  AGENT.     They  have  arranged  it  all. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.      Who  have  arranged  what? 

THE  AGENT.  Your  aunt,  Miss  Brooke — and  (to 
the  young  woman}  your  uncle,  Mr.  Egerton — 

The  young  people  turn  and  stare  at  each  other  in 
amazement. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  Egerton !  Are  you  Helen 
Egerton  ? 

HELEN.     And   are   you   George   Brooke? 

THE  AGENT.  Your  aunt  and  uncle  have  just  dis 
covered  each  other  up  at  the  house,  and  they  have 
arranged  for  you  all  to  take  dinner  together  tonight, 
and  then  go  to  a  ten-day  house-party  at  Mr.  Eger- 
ton's  place  on  Long  Island.  (Grimly}  The  rea 
son  of  all  this  will  be  plain  to  you.  They  want  you 
two  to  get  married. 

GEORGE.  Then  we're  done  for!  We'll  have  to 
get  married  now  whether  we  want  to  or  not ! 

HELEN.  What!  Just  to  please  them?  I  shan't 
do  it! 

GEORGE  (gloomily)  You  don't  know  my  Aunt 
Maria. 

HELEN.  And  Tubby  will  try  to  bully  me,  I  sup 
pose.  But  I  won't  do  it — no  matter  what  he  says  ! 

THE  AGENT.  Pardon  what  may  seem  an  imperti 
nence,  Miss ;  but  is  it  really  true  that  you  don't  want 
to  marry  this  young  man? 

HELEN  (-flaming)  I  suppose  because  you-  saw  me  in 
his  arms — !  Oh,  I  want  to,  all  right,  but — 


94          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

THE  AGENT  (mildly)  Then  what  seems  to  be  the 
trouble? 

HELEN.     I — oh,  you  explain  to  him,  George. 

She  goes  to  the  bench  and  sits  down. 

GEORGE.  Well,  it's  this  way.  As  you  may  have 
deduced  from  what  you  saw,  we  are  madly  in  love 
with  each  other — 

HELEN  (from  the  bench)  But  I'm  not  madly  in  love 
with  municipal  ownership.  That's  the  chief  dif 
ficulty. 

GEORGE.  No,  the  chief  difficulty  is  that  I  refuse 
to  entertain  even  a  platonic  affection  for  the 
tango. 

HELEN  (irritably)  I  told  you  the  tango  had  gone 
out  long  ago ! 

GEORGE.     Well,  then,  the  maxixe. 

•HELEN.     Stupid ! 

GEORGE.  And  there  you  have  it !  No  doubt  it 
seems  ridiculous  to  you. 

THE  AGENT  (gravely)  Not  at  all,  my  boy.  I've 
known  marriage  to  go  to  smash  on  far  less  than  that. 
When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  a  taste  for  dancing 
and  a  taste  for  municipal  ownership  stand  at  the 
two  ends  of  the  earth  away  from  each  other.  They 
represent  two  different  ways  of  taking  life.  And 
if  two  people  who  live  in  the  same  house  can't  agree 
on  those  two  things,  they'd  disagree  on  a  hundred 
things  that  came  up  every  day.  And  what's  the  use 
for  two  different  kinds  of  beings  to  try  to  live  to- 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          95 

gether?  It  doesn't  work,  no  matter  how  much  love 
there  is  between  them. 

GEORGE  (rushing  up  to  him  in  surprise  and  grati 
fication,  and  shaking  his  hand  warmly)  Then  you're 
on  our  side !  You'll  help  us  not  to  get  married ! 

THE  AGENT.  Your  aunt  is  very  set  on  it — and 
your  uncle,  too,  Miss ! 

HELEN.  We  must  find  some  way  to  get  out  of  it, 
or  they'll  have  us  cooped  up  together  in  that  house 
before  we  know  it.  (Rising  and  coming  over  to  the 
Agent)  Can't  you  think  up  some  scheme? 

THE  AGENT.  Perhaps  I  can,  and  perhaps  I  can't. 
I'm  a  bachelor  myself,  Miss,  and  that  means  that  I've 
thought  up  many  a  scheme  to  get  out  of  marriage 
myself. 

HELEN  (outraged)  You  old  scoundrel! 

THE  AGENT.  Oh,  it's  not  so  'bad  as  you  may  think, 
Miss.  I've  always  gone  through  the  marriage  cere 
mony  to  please  them.  But  that's  not  what  I  call 
marriage. 

GEORGE,     Then  what  do  you  call  marriage? 

HELEN.     Yes,  I'd  like  to  know ! 

THE  AGENT.  Marriage,  my  young  friends,  is  an 
iniquitous  arrangement  devised  by  the  Devil  himself 
for  driving  all  the  love  out  of  the  hearts  of  lovers. 
They  start  out  as  much  in  love  with  each  other 
as  you  two  are  today,  and  they  end  by  being  as 
sick  of  the  sight  of  each  other  as  you  two  will  be 
five  years  hence  if  I  don't  find  a  way  of  saving  you 


96          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

alive  out  of  the  Devil's  own  trap.  It's'  not  lack  of 
love  that's  the  trouble  with  marriage — it's  marriage 
itself.  And  when  I  say  marriage,  I  don't  mean 
promising  to  love,  honour,  and  obey,  for  richer,  for 
poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health  till  death  do  you 
part — that's  only  human  nature  to  wish  and  to  at 
tempt.  And  it  might  be  done  if  it  weren't  for  the 
iniquitous  arrangement  of  marriage. 

GEORGE  (puzzled)  But  what  is  the  iniquitous  ar 
rangement  ? 

TITE  AGENT.  Ah,  that's  the  trouble!  If  I  tell 
you,  you  won't  believe  me.  You'll  go  ahead  and  try 
it  out,  and  find*  out  what  all  the  unhappy  ones  have 
found  out  before  you.  Listen  to  me,  my  children. 
Did  you  ever  go  on  a  picnic?  (He  looks  from  one 
to  the  other — they  stand  astonished  and  silent.) 
Of  course  you  have.  Every  one  has.  There  is  an 
instinct  in  us  which  makes  us  go  back  to  the  ways  of 
our  savage  ancestors — to  gather  about  a  fire  in  the 
forest,  to  cook  meat  on  a  pointed  stick,  and  eat  it 
with  our  fingers.  But  how  many  books  would  you 
write,  young  man,  if  you  had  to  go  back  to  the  camp- 
fire  every  day  for  your  lunch?  And  how  many  new 
dances  would  you  invent  if  you  lived  eternally  in  the 
picnic  stage  of  civilization?  No!  the  picnic  is  in 
compatible  with  everyday  living.  As  incompatible 
as  marriage. 

GEORGE.     But — 

'HELEN.       But 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          97 

THE  AGENT.  Marriage  is  the  nest-building  in 
stinct,  turned  by  the  Devil  himself  into  an  institu 
tion  to  hold  the  human  soul  in  chains.  The  whole 
story  of  marriage  is  told  in  the  old  riddle:  "Why 
do  birds  in  their  nests  agree?  Because  if  they  don't, 
they'll  fall  out."  That's  it.  Marriage  is  a  nest  so 
small  that  there  is  no  room  in  it  for  disagreement. 
Now  it  may  be  all  right  for  birds  to  agree,  but  hu 
man  beings  are  not  built  that  way.  They  dis 
agree,  and  home  becomes  a  little  hell.  Or  else  they 
do  agree,  at  the  expense  of  the  soul's  freedom  stifled 
in  one  or  both. 

HELEN.     Yes,  but  tell  me — 

GEORGE.     Ssh ! 

THE  AGENT.  Yet  there  is  the  nest-building  in 
stinct.  You  feel  it,  both  of  you.  If  you  don't  now, 
you  will  as  soon  as  you  are  married.  If  you  are 
fools,  you  will  try  to  live  all  your  lives  in  a  love-nest ; 
and  you  will  imprison  your  souls  within  it,  and  the 
Devil  will  laugh. 

HELEN  (to  George)  I  am  beginning  to  be  afraid 
of  him. 

GEORGE.     So  am  I. 

THE  AGENT.  If  you  are  wise,  you  will  build  your 
selves  a  little  nest  secretly  in  the  woods,  away  from 
civilization,  and  you  will  run  away  together  to  that 
nest  whenever  you  are  in  the  mood.  A  nest  so  small 
that  it  will  hold  only  two  beings  and  one  thought — 
the  thought  of  love.  And  then  you  will  come  back 


98          SWEET-AND-TWENTY 

refreshed  to  civilization,  where  every  soul  is  different 
from  every  other  soul — you  will  let  each  other  alone, 
forget  each  other,  and  do  your  own  work  in  peace. 
Do  you  understand? 

HELEN.  He  means  we  should  occupy  separate 
sides  of  the  house,  I  think.  Or  else  that  we  should 
live  apart  and  only  see  each  other  on  week-ends. 
I'm  not  sure  which. 

THE  AGENT  (passionately)  I  mean  that  you  should 
not  stifle  love  with  civilization,  nor  encumber  civiliza 
tion  with  love.  What  have  they  to  do  with  each 
other?  You  think  you  want  a  fellow  student  of 
economics.  You  are  wrong.  You  think  you  want 
a  dancing  partner.  You  are  mistaken.  You  want  a 
revelation  of  the  glory  of  the  universe. 

HELEN  (to  George,  confidentially)  It's  blithering 
nonsense,  of  course.  But  it  was  something  like  that 
— a  while  ago. 

GEORGE  (bewUderedly)  Yes;  when  we  knew  it  was 
our  first  kiss  and  thought  it  was  to  be  our  last. 

THE  AGENT  (fiercely)  A  kiss  is  always  the  first 
kiss  and  the  last — or  it  is  nothing. 

HELEN  (conclusively)  He's  quite  mad. 

GEORGE.     Absolutely. 

THE  AGENT.     Mad?     Of  course  I  am  mad.     But — 

He  turns  suddenly,  and  subsides  as  a  man  in  a 
guard9s  uniform  enters. 

THE  GUARD.  Ah,  here  you  are !  Thought  you'd 
given  us  the  slip,  did  you?  (To  the  others)  Es- 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY          99 

capcd  from  the  Asylum,  he  did,  a  week  ago,  and  got 
a  job  here.  We've  been  huntin'  him  high  and  low. 
Come  along  now! 

GEORGE  (recovering  with  difficulty  the  power  of 
speech)  What — what's  the  matter  with  him? 

THE  GUARD.  Matter  with  him?  He  went  crazy,  he 
did,  readin'  the  works  of  Bernard  Shaw.  And  if  he 
wasn't  in  the  insane  asylum  he'd  be  in  jail.  He's  a 
bigamist,  he  is.  He  married  fourteen  women.  But 
none  of  'em  would  go  on  the  witness  stand  against 
him.  Said  he  was  an  ideal  husband,  they  did.  Four 
teen  of  'em!  But  otherwise  he's  perfectly  harmless. 

THE  AGENT  (pleasantly)  Perfectly  harmless!  Yes, 
perfectly  harmless ! 

He  is  led  out. 

HELEN.      That  explains  it  all ! 

GEORGE.  Yes — and  yet  I  feel  there  was  something 
in  what  he  was  saying. 

HELEN.  Well — are  we  going  to  get  married  or 
not?  We've  got  to  decide  that  before  we  face  my 
uncle  and  your  aunt. 

GEORGE.  Of  course  we'll  get  married.  You  have 
your  work  and  I  mine,  and — 

HELEN.  Well,  if  we  do,  then  you  can't  have  that 
sunny  south  room  for  a  study.  I  want  it  for  the 
nursery. 

GEORGE.     The  nursery! 

HELEN.     Yes ;  babies,  you  know ! 

GEORGE.     Good  heavens ! 


A  LONG  TIME  AGO 

A   TRAGIC    FANTASY 


To  BROR  NORDFELDT 


"A  Long  Time  Ago"  was  first  produced  by  the  Provincetown 
Players,  New  York  City,  in  1917,  with  the  following  cast: 

The  Old  Woman  Miriam  Kiper 

The  Fool Duncan  MacDougal 

The  Queen  Ida  Rauh 

The  Sailor George  Cram  Cook 

The  Prince Pendleton  King 


The  courtyard  of  a  palace.  On  one  side,  broad 
steps,  and  a  door,  leading  to  the  palace.  On  the 
other,  steps  leading  downward.  At  the  back,  a  rose- 
arbour,  and  in  front  of  it  a  wide  seat. 

On  the  steps  before  the  door  a  fool  is  sitting, 
plucking  at  a  musical  instrument.  On  the  lower 
steps  stands  an  old  wom-an,  richly  dressed. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Why  do  you  sit  there,  fool,  and 
twang  at  that  harp?  There's  no  occasion  for  mak 
ing  music.  Nobody  has  been  winning  any  battles. 
How  long  has  it  been  since  a  great  fight  was  heard 
of? 

THE  FOOL.  If  there  had  been  a  battle,  old  woman, 
they  would  have  had  to  get  some  one  besides  myself 
to  celebrate  the  winning  of  it.  I  do  not  like  fighting. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  What  does  a  scrawny  little 
weakling  like  you  know  of  fighting,  and  why  should 
you  have  an  opinion? 

THE  FOOL.  The  days  of  fighting  are  over,  and  a 
good  thing  it  is,  too.  Four  kingdoms  we  have  about 
us,  that  in  the  bloody  old  days  we  would  be  for  ever 
marching  against,  and  they  against  us,  killing  and 
burning  and  destroying  the  crops  till  a  quiet  man 
would  be  sick  to  think  of  it.  But  that's  all  past. 

103 


104  ALONGTIMEAGO 

Twenty  years  we  have  been  at  peace  with  them,  and 
that's  ever  since  the  young  queen  was  born,  and  I 
hope  it  may  last  as  long  as  she  lives. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  There's  no  stopping  a  fool  when 
he  starts  to  talk.  But  it  is  right  you  are  that  the 
good  old  days  are  gone.  Those  were  the  days  of 
great  heroes,  like  the  father  of  her  that  is  now  Queen. 
They  were  fine  men  that  stood  beside  him,  and  one 
was  my  own  man.  I  said  to  him,  "This  is  the  time 
a  brave  man  is  sure  to  be  killed.  If  you  come  back 
to  me,  I'll  always  think  you  were  a  coward."  He 
died  along  with  a  thousand  of  the  best  men  in  the 
kingdom  fighting  around  the  King.  That  was  a 
great  day.  Four  kingdoms  at  once  we  fought,  and 
beat  them  to  their  knees.  Glad  enough  they  were 
to  make  peace  with  the  child  of  that  dead  king. 

THE  FOOL.  Spare  me,  woman.  I've  heard  that  old 
story  often  enough.  What  do  you  suppose  all  that 
fighting  was  for,  if  it  wasn't  to  put  an  end  to  quarrel 
ling  for  all  time?  If  the  old  King  was  alive  now,  he'd 
sit  in  his  palace  and  drink  his  ale  and  listen  to 
music,  and  when  he  saw  the  young  men  giving  kisses 
to  the  young  women  under  the  trees  he'd  be  glad 
enough.  But  you  still  go  cawing  for  blood,  like  an 
old  crow. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  I'll  not  talk  to  such  a  one. 
You  can  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  our  enemies 
are  strong  and  prosperous.  We  let  them  into  the 
kingdom  with  their  silks  and  their  satins  and  their 


A    LONG    TIME    AGO  105 

jewels  to  sell.  They  walk  about  the  city  here  and 
laugh  to  themselves,  thinking  how  they  will  spoil  and 
destroy  everything  soon.  It  may  be  this  year,  it 
may  be  next  year.  If  the  old  King  were  alive,  he'd 
never  have  let  them  get  half  so  strong.  He  would 
have  kept  them  in  fear  of  us,  and  trained  up  a  fine 
band  of  heroes,  too,  making  raids  on  them  once  in  a 
while.  There's  the  city  that  shoves  itself  right  up 
against  our  borders — I  can  see  our  men  coming 
home  from  the  spoiling  of  it,  all  red  with  spilt  wine 
and  blood.  .  .  . 

THE  FOOL.  You're  a  disgusting  old  woman.  If  I 
hear  any  more  of  that  talk,  I'm  likely  to  slap  the 
face  of  you,  even  if  you  are  the  Queen's  nurse.  Go 
away  before  you  spoil  my  afternoon. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  I  could  speak  to  the  Queen  and 
have  you  beaten,  do  you  know  that? 

THE  FOOL.  Woman,  go  away.  I  do  not  want  to 
be  bothered  by  the  old  and  the  garrulous.  I  am 
composing  a  love-song. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Has  any  one  ever  loved  you,  I 
would  like  to  know?  Now  if  it  were  that  young 
prince  who  is  staying  with  us,  he  would  have  some 
right  to  make  love-songs — if  what  they  say  is  true, 
that  every  woman  he  meets  on  his  journey  falls  in 
love  with  him.  Even  our  own  Queen,  I  am  thinking. 
But  only  three  days  does  he  stay  in  any  place,  and 
then  he  is  up  and  gone  on  his  long  journey  that  no- 
bodv  understands  the  reason  or  the  end  of,  from  the 


106  A    LONG    TIME    AGO 

east  to  the  west.  He  is  too  wise  to  be  held  by  such 
toys  as  love. 

THE  FOOL.     Then  he  is  more  a  fool  than  I. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Who  should  know  about  love,  if 
not  a  man  who  has  been  loved  by  many  women  and 
by  great  queens?  But  you,  what  do  you  know  about 
it? 

THE  FOOL.  The  trouble  with  the  old  is  that  they 
forget  so  many  things.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  woman. 
You  think  yourself  wise,  but  the  fool  that  sits  at  the 
Queen's  doorstep  and  looks  at  her  as  she  passes,  and 
she  never  seeing  him  at  all,  is  wiser  than  you. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have  wasted  enough  words 
with  you.  I  will  go  away  and  sit  in  the  sun  and  think 
of  the  days  when  there  were  heroes. 

She  goes. 

THE  FOOL.  And  I  will  make  a  song  about  love. 
I  will  make  a  song  about  the  love  that  is  too  high  for 
pride  and  too  deep  for  shame. 

The  door  has  opened,  and  the  yowng  Queen  stands 
looking  down  at  him. 

THE  QUEEN.  What  is  that,  fool?  What  are  the 
words  you  are  saying? 

THE  FOOL  (kneeling)  I  was  speaking  of  a  love  that 
is  too  high  for  pride  and  too  deep  for  shame. 

THE  QUEEN.     And  whose  love  is  that,  fool? 

THE  FOOL.  It  is  the  love  of  all  who  really  love, 
and  it  is  the  only  love  worth  making  a  song  about. 


A    LONG    TIME    AGO  107 

THE  QUEEN  (smiling)  And  how  do  you  come  to  be 
so  wise  as  to  know  about  such  things? 

THE  FOOL.     I  know  because  I  am  a  fool. 

THE  QUEEN.  I  am  well  answered".  And  you  are 
not  the  only  fool  in  the  world,  I  am  thinking.  But 
tell  me,  fool,  have  you  seen  any  of  the  Prince's  men 
here  ? 

THE  FOOL.  No,  but  I  have  heard  that  the  ship  is 
being  got  ready  for  sailing.  .  .  . 

THE  QUEEN  (rebukwgly)  I  did  not  ask  you  that. 
(She  is  about  to  go,  but  turns  back,  and  gives  him  a 
piece  of  money.)  This  is  for  you  to  buy  wine  with 
and  get  drunken.  You  are  not  amusing  when  you  are 
sober.  (She  starts  to  go,  but  turns  again.)  Fool, 
do  you  believe  in  magic? 

THE  FOOL.  I  have  heard  that  the  old  wizard  who 
lives  in  a  cave  down  by  the  shore  is  able  to  rouse 
storms  and  keep  vessels  from  sailing.  .  .  . 

THE  QUEEN  (looking  at  him  for  a  moment  fixedly) 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  have  you  poisoned.  Here, 
take  this,  and  remember  that  I  said  to  be  drunken. 

She  gives  him  another  piece  of  money,  and  goes 
off  by  way  of  the  rose-trellised  passage-way. 

A  sailor  comes  up  the  steps. 

THE  SAILOR.     Fool,  where  is  the  Prince? 

THE  FOOL.  I  do  not  know,  sailor,  but  I  can  tell 
you  what  I  think. 

THE  SAILOR.      What  difference  does  it  make  what 


108  A   LONG   TIME    AGO 

you   think?     I  have  a   message  to  deliver  to   him. 

THE  FOOL,.  I  think  that  the  Queen  has  sung  him  to 
sleep,  and  that  he  has  not  yet  awakened. 

THE  SAILOR.  It  is  likely  enough.  But  I  have  been 
sent  by  the  captain,  and  I  must  see  him. 

THE  FOOL.        You  look  hot. 

THE  SAILOR.  I  am  so  hot  and  thirsty  that  I  could 
drink  a  barrelful  of  wine.  It  is  well  enough  for  the 
Prince  to  lie  about  and  eat  and  drink  and  be  sung1 
to  by  pretty  women,  but  we  sailors  have  work  to 
do.  This  business  of  staying  only  three  days  in  each 
port  disgusts  me.  No  sooner  do  we  get  ashore  than 
we  have  to  go  back  on  'board  again.  I  saw  a  girl 
yesterday,  a  beauty,  and  not  afraid  of  a  man.  There 
must  be  many  like  that  here,  but  what  good  does  it 
do  me?  I  spent  all  my  money  on  her,  and  now  I  can't 
even  get  a  drink.  It's  a  shame. 

THE  FOOL.     Would  you  like  a  drink? 

THE  SAILOR.  Fool,  don't  make  a  mock  of  my 
thirst,  or  I'll  twist  your  neck. 

THE  FOOL.     Look  at  this.      (Shows  him  a  coin.) 

THE  SAILOR.  What  a  piece  of  luck!  Is  it  real 
money?  Where  did  you  get  it? 

THE  FOOL.  Your  prince  gave  it  to  me,  and  said 
I  was  to  treat  any  of  his  sailors  that  I  came  across. 

THE  SAILOR.  Then  it's  all  right.  Why  didn't  you 
say  so  before  ?  Come  along.  If  you  were  as  thirsty 
as  I  am — ! 

They  go  down  the  steps. 


A    LONG    TIME    AGO  109 

The  door  opens,  and  the  Prince  comes  out.  He 
looks  up  and  down. 

THE  PRINCE.  And  now  begins  again  my  long 
journey  from  the  east  to  the  west.  .  .  . 

The  old  woman  appears. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.     Well,  have  you  waked  at  last? 

THE  PRINCE).  You  are  a  bitter-tongued  old  woman. 
But  for  all  that,  I  think  you  are  my  friend.  Per 
haps  the  only  friend  I  have  here. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  You  are  right.  For  all  that 
you  sleep  your  holiday  away,  you  are  a  brave  man. 
And  I  am  the  only  one  in  this  kingdom  that  thinks 
well  of  bravery.  The  rest  want  to  smother  it  with 
kisses. 

THE  PRINCE.  True  enough.  I  feel  that  already 
I  am  becoming  soft.  Never  before  have  I  been  un 
willing  to  leave  a  city — 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.     Or  a  Queen.  .  .  . 

THE  PRINCE.  I  must  go  on  board  ship.  Is  it 
ready,  I  wonder?  The  captain  promised  to  send 
word  to  me.  .  .  . 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Yes,  it  is  time  you  went,  before 
they  have  made  a  lapdog  of  you. 

THE  PRINCE.  You  speak  very  freely.  Are  you 
not  afraid  of  the  Queen? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  She  does  not  know  what  she 
is  doing.  She  has  grown  up  in  a  base  time  of  peace, 
and  she  does  not  understand  that  it  is  not  a  man's 
business  to  sleep  and  drink  wine  and  exchange  kisses 


110  ALONGTIMEAGO 

with  pretty  queens.  She  would  turn  you  from  your 
purpose — 

THE  PRINCE.  My  purpose?  What  do  you  know 
of  my  purpose? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have  not  guessed  your  secret. 
But  I  know  that  you  are  not  merely  taking  a  pleas 
ure  journey.  I  have  seen  heroes,  and  you  have  the 
eyes  of  one.  The  end  of  all  this  journeying  from 
the  east  to  the  west  is  something  great  and  terrible 
— and  I  will  not  have  you  turned  aside. 

THE  PEINCE.  Something  great  and  terrible.  .  .  . 
Yes.  .  .  . 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  You  have  the  look  of  one  who 
does  not  care  for  rest  or  peace  or  the  love  of  a  woman 
for  more  than  a  day.  But  there  is  a  weakness  in 
you,  too.  If  you  would  go,  go  quickly. 

THE  PRINCE.  I  wonder  why  the  sailor  does  not 
come.  It  looks  like  a  storm. 

The  sky  has  become  ominously  dark. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.     Would  a  storm  hold  you  back? 

THE  PRINCE.  Is  that  what  you  think  of  me,  old 
woman? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Well,  we  shall  see  what  stuff  you 
are  made  of.  ... 

She  shuffles  off. 

The  Queen  enters. 

THE  QUEEN  (coming  up  to  him,  tenderly)  When 
did  you  wake? 


A    LONG   TIME    AGO  111 

THE  PRINCE.  Did  you  think  your  voice  had  enough 
magic  in  it  to  make  me  sleep  till  you  returned?  We 
have  just  time  to  say  farewell. 

THE  QUEEN.  There  is  a  storm  coming  up.  Do 
you  see  how  black  the  sky  is  ? 

THE  PRINCE.     I  am  not  afraid  of  storms. 

THE  QUEEN.  Of  course  you  are  not  afraid  of 
storms.  Did  you  think  you  had  to  prove  your  brav 
ery? 

THE  PRINCE.     The  three  days  are  over. 

THE  QUEEN.     And  how  quickly! 

THE  PRINCE.  I  told  you  I  could  stay  only  three 
days. 

THE  QUEEN.  I  thought  you  were  a  king,  and 
could  do  whatever  you  chose.  .  .  . 

THE  PRINCE.  I  have  chosen  to  stay  only  three 
days. 

THE  QUEEN.     In  what  way  have  I  offended  you? 

THE  PRINCE.  I  made  my  choice  long  ago,  before 
I  knew  you. 

THE  QUEEN.  And  now  you  are  afraid  to  change 
your  mind? 

THE  PRINCE.  Do  you  think  a  brave  man  changes 
his  mind  for  pleasure's  sake? 

THE  QUEEN.  Forgive  me.  If  it  is  your  happiness 
to  go  on,  to  what  end  I  do  not  know,  I  will  let 
you.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  you  unhappy.  But  I 
would  give  you  something  to  take  with  you,  one  more 


112  ALONGTIMEAGO 

flower  of  my  garden,  an  unfading  rose  that  shall 
be  like  a  bright  memory  of  me  in  your  heart  always. 
Will  you  take  it? 

She  leads  him  back  into  the  palace. 

The  sailor  enters,  supported  by  the  -fool. 

THE  SAILOR  (drunkenly)  Where — where  is  my 
Prince?  I  have  a  message  for  him. 

THE  FOOL.  So  you  said.  But  you  haven't  fin 
ished  telling  me  about  that  girl.  Her  eyes  were  blue, 
you  said. 

THE  SAILOR.  Blue,  yes.  If  I  said  blue,  then  blue 
it  was1.  Or  maybe  grteen,  or  grey.  Maybe  I'm 
thinking  of  the  hussy  back  in  the  last  port  we  stopped 
at.  It's  all  the  same.  Reminds  me  of  a  little  song. 
Shall  I  sing  you  a  little  song? 

THE  FOOL.     Another  song?     Sing  away  then. 

THE  SAILOR.  First  another  drink  from  this  flagon. 
Ah !  Now  I'm  ready.  I've  often  been  complimented 
on  my  voice.  (Sings) 

We'll  go  no  more  a-roving — 

No,  that's  not  the  one.  Let  me  see.  Ah,  now  I've 
got  it.  Listen.  (Sings) 

Blue  eyes,  grey  eyes,  green-and-gold  eyes, 
Eyes    that    question,,   doubt,    deny, 
Sudden-flashing,  cold,  hard,  bold  eyes, 
Here's  your  answer:     I  am  I! 


A    LONG    TIME    AGO  113 

Not  for  you,  and  not  for  any, 
Came  I  into  this  man's  town — 
Barkeep,  here's  my  golden  penny, 
Come  who  will  and  drink  it  down ! 

I'm  not  one  to  lend  and  borrow, 
I'm  not  one  to  overstay — 
I  shall  go  alone  tomorrow 
Whistling,  as  I  came  today. 

Leave  my  sword  alone,  you  hussy! 
There  is  blood  upon  the  blade — 
Dragon-slaying  is  a  messy 
Sort  of  trade.     Put  back  the  blade! 

Take  my  knee  and — 0  you  darling! 
A  man  forgets  how  sweet  you  are! 
Snarling  dragons — flowing  flagons — 
Devil  take  the  morning  star ! 

THE  FOOL.     Bravo ! 

THE  SAILOR.  And  there  you  are!  If  I  do  say  it 
myself,  I  have  as  good  a  time  as  the  Prince  does. 
One  girl's  as  nice  as  another — and  maybe  nicer,  at 
that.  What's  a  Queen?  Can  she  kiss  better  than 
any  other  girl?  I've  wondered  a  bit  about  it.  And 
the  conclusion  I've  come  to  is  ...  the  conclusion 
I've  come  to  ... 

THE  FOOL.     The  conclusion  you've  come  to  is — ? 


114  A   LONG   TIME    AGO 

THE  SAILOR.  Right  you  are.  Give  me  that  flagon. 
That's  the  stuff.  What  was  I  saying?  The  con 
clusion  I've  come  to  is  that  the  Prince  can't  have  any 
more  fun  in  three  days  than  any  other  man.  Queen 
or  no  Queen.  Am  I  right?  Tell  me,  am  I  right? 

THE  FOOL..      I  wouldn't  contradict  you.   .  .  . 

THE  SAILOR.  No.  Of  course  you  wouldn't. 
You're  a  good  fellow.  You're  my  friend.  Where's 
that  flagon?  Ah!  And  now  it's  your  turn  to  sing. 
Sing  that  little  song  you  sang  a  while  ago.  That 
was  a  good  one.  You  sing  almost  as  well  as  I  do. 

THE  FOOL  (chants) 

In  this  harsh  world  and  old 
Why  must  we  cherish 
Fires  that  grow  not  cold 
In  hearts  that  perish? 

With  the   strong  floods   of  hate 
I  cleansed  my  bosom, 
But  springeth  soon  and  late 
The  fiery  blossom. 

What  though  some  lying  tale 
The  mind  dissembles? 
The  scarlet  lip  turns  pale, 
The  strong  hand  trembles.  .   .  . 

THE  SAILOR.     No,  no,  not  that  one!     That  one 


ALONGTIMEAGO  115 

hasn't  any  tune  to  it,  and  it  isn't  about  girls.  It's 
no  song  at  all.  I  meant  the  one — you  know — about 
the  young  widow.  How  did  it  go?  (He  swigs  from 
the  -flagon.)  But  I  mustn't  forget  the  Prince. 
Where's  that  Prince? 

THE  FOOL.  Oh,  yes,  the  Prince.  Of  course.  We 
mustn't  forget  the  Prince.  Come  along  with  me. 

He  leads  the  sailor  off  through  the  rose-arbour. 

The  door  of  the  palace  opens,  disclosing  the  Prince 
and  the  Queen. 

He  clasps  her  hands  and  then  descends  the  steps. 

THE    QUEEN.       Wait! 

She  runs  down,  and  tenderly  embraces  him. 
THE  PRINCE.     Farewell. 

THE  QUEEN.        Must   yOU  gO  ? 

THE  PRINCE.      I  shall  remember  you  always. 

THE  QUEEN  (bitterly)  I  suppose  that  is 
enough.  .  .  . 

They  come  down  the  steps  together. 

THE  PRINCE.     What  is  that  you  say? 

THE  QUEEN.  I  say  that  it  is  enough  that  you 
should  think  of  me  sometimes  on  your  long  journey 
from  the  east  to  the  west.  To  be  remembered — 
that  is  the  portion  of  women. 

THE  PRINCE.  You  knew  what  manner  of  man  I 
was,  and  that  I  would  not  be  detained.  Why,  if 
you  must  have  the  taste  of  kisses  on  your  lips  always, 
did  you  not  turn  to  some  man  of  your  own  land, 
who  would  not  stray  from  your  side?  Why  did 


116  ALONGTIMEAGO 

you  give  your  love  to  one  you  had  never  seen  be 
fore,  and  will  never  see  again?  I  did  not  ask  that 
you  love  me.  What  you  gave,  I  took. 

THE  QUEEN.  I  regret  nothing  that  I  have  given. 
But  I  am  sorry  for  you,  because  you  do  not  under 
stand. 

THE  PRINCE.  It  may  be  that  I  do  not  understand. 
But  I  know  that  I  may  not  stay  longer  in  this  place. 
Would  you  ask  me  to  do  otherwise? 

THE  QUEEN.  I  would  not  ask  you,  no.  If  you 
understood,  I  would  have  no  need  of  asking.  If  all 
things  in  your  life  have  not  changed  colour  and 
significance — if  I  have  been  to  you  but  as  a  harlot 
to  one  of  your  sailors, — then  leave  me. 

THE  PRINCE  (confusedly)  It  is  not  true  that  noth 
ing  has  changed.  My  mind  is  in  a  turmoil.  I  am 
dizzy,  I  cannot  see.  I  have  almost  forgotten  why  I 
set  my  heart  on  this  journey.  You  have  bewitched 
me,  and  that  is  why  I  fear  you.  If  I  stay  here  with 
you  any  longer,  I  shall  forget  everything.  I  must 

g°- 

THE  QUEEN  (her  arms  about  him)  You  have  for 
gotten  the  meaning  of  your  journey.  You  will  not 
go. 

THE  PRINCE.     I  am  going.   .   .   . 

But  he  allows  himself  to  be  led  to  the  arbour  seat. 

THE  QUEEN.  It  is  too  late.  You  are  mine,  now, 
mine  for  ever.  It  was  for  this  that  you  came  hither 


ALONGTIMEAGO  111 

— I  am  the  meaning  of  your  journey.  It  was  or 
dained  that  you  love  me.  You  must  not  think  of 
anything  else. 

THE  PRIXCE.  Why  have  you  done  this  to  me? 
Are  you  a  witch?  I  am  afraid  of  you! 

He  rises. 

THE  QUEEN.  I  will  teach  you  strange  and  terrible 
secrets. 

THE  PRINCE.  I  fear  you  and  yet  I  trust  you. 
What  will  come  of  this  I  do  not  know.  But  I  care 
for  nothing.  Nothing  in  the  world  means  anything 
to  me  now  except  you.  Why  is  it  that  I  seem  to 
hate  you? 

He  seizes  her  and  holds  her  fiercely. 

THE  QUEEN.     That  is  because  you  love  me  at  last. 

THE  PRINCE.     I  could  kill  you. 

THE  QUEEN.     You  seek  in  vain  to  escape  love. 

The  sailor  staggers  in,  sees  the  Prince,  and  stops. 

THE  SAILOR.     I  am  bidden  to  tell  you — 

THE  PRINCE.     Be  off! — What  is  it  you  say? 

The  Queen  stands  still,  with  her  hands  over  her 
face. 

THE  SAILOR.     The  ship  is  ready. 

THE   PRINCE.       Go! 

The  sailor  walks  away. 

THE  QUEEN  (looking  after  him)  A  word,  and  you 
have  forgotten  me  already.  A  moment  ago  I  thought 
you  loved  me.  Now  I  am  nothing  to  you. 


A   LONG   TIME    AGO 


THE  PRINCE.     The  ship  — 

THE  QUEEN.  It  is  ready  to  sail.  They  are  wait 
ing  for  you.  Why  do  you  not  go? 

THE  PRINCE.  I  am  sorry.  But  it  is  as  you  say. 
The  ship  is  ready  to  sail.  I  must  go. 

THE  QUEEN.     Go  quickly. 

THE  PRINCE.     Farewell,  then. 

THE  QUEEN.  No,  stay.  (She  throws  herself  at 
his  feet,  and  clasps  his  knees.)  See,  I  beg  you  to 
stay.  I  have  no  shame  left.  I  beg  you.  Stay  even 
though  you  despise  me.  Stay  even  though  you  hate 
me.  I  do  not  care.  I  will  be  your  slave,  your 
bondwoman.  I  cannot  let  you  go. 

She  puts  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  weeps. 

THE  PRINCE  (looking  down  at  her)  I  am  sorry. 
(After  a  pause)  Farewell. 

He  touches  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  and,  look 
ing  toward  the  sea,  leaves  her.  She  rises,  and  watches 
him  with  a  stony  face  until  he  goes. 

The  fool  enters. 

THE  QUEEN.  Are  you  drunken,  fool,  as  I  bade  you 
be? 

THE  FOOL.  I  am  drunken,  yes,  but  not  with  wine. 
I  am  drunken  with  bitterness.  With  the  bitterness 
of  love. 

THE  QUEEN.       Of  loVC,  f  Ool  ? 

THE  FOOL.  With  the  bitterness  of  love.  It  will 
amuse  you,  and  so  I  will  tell  you  what  I  mean.  It 
is  you  that  I  love. 


ALONGTIMEAGO  119 

THE  QUEEN.  Life  grows  almost  interesting  once 
more.  But  are  you  not  afraid  that  I  will  have  you 
whipped  ? 

THE  FOOL.  You  would  have  had  me  whipped  a 
week  ago  if  I  had  told  you  this.  But  now  you  will 
not.  Now  you  know  what  it  is  to  love.  .  .  . 

THE  QUEEN.  My  secrets  are  on  a  fool's  tongue. 
But  what  does  it  matter?  Go  on. 

THE  FOOL.  Why  did  I  try  to  keep  the  man  you 
love  from  going  away?  In  the  hope  that  one  day  I 
should  see  you  kissing  him  in  the  garden,  and  thus 
I  would  be  spared  the  trouble  of  killing  myself.  In 
a  word,  I  am  a  fool.  But  I  have  tried  to  help  you. 
Why  did  you  not  keep  him? 

THE  QUEEN.  I  have  been  asking  that  question  of 
my  own  heart,  fool.  I  would  that  I  had  not  come  to 
him  a  virgin  and  a  Queen,  but  a  light  woman  skilled 
in  all  the  ways  of  love.  Then  perhaps  I  could  have 
held  him.  But  now  he  is  gone,  and  the  world  is 
black. 

THE  FOOL.  It  is  not  the  world,  it  is  your  heart 
that  is  black.  And  it  is  black  with  hatred.  .  .  . 

THE  QUEEN.  I  think  you  understand,  fool.  I 
would  set  fire  to  this  palace  which  the  King  my  father 
built,  I  would  burn  it  down  tonight,  save  that  it 
would  not  make  light  enough  to  take  away  the  black 
ness  from  my  heart. 

The  sailor  again,  staggering. 

THE  QUEEN.     What,  has  the  ship  not  gone? 


120  A    LONG    TIME    AGO 

THE  SAILOR.  Gone,  and  left  me  behind.  Gone, 
and  left  me.  .  .  . 

THE  FOOL.     Here  is  still  wine  in  the  flagon. 

THE  SAILOR.     Good.     Good.     Give  it  to  me. 

THE  QUEEN  (to  the  fool)  First  bring  it  to  me. 
(She  takes  off  a  ring,  and  dips  it  in  the  wine.  To 
the  fool) — I  have  spoken  lightly  of  poisoning  today. 
Now  I  think  I  will  try  it.  I  would  like  to  see  a 
man  die.  It  will  ease  me  a  little.  Come! 

The  sailor  comes  and  takes  it  from  her  hands, 
while  the  fool  stares  fascinated. 

THE  QUEEN.     How  does  it  taste? 

THE  SAILOR  (suddenly  straightening  up,  no  longer 
drunk)  Bitter.  What  was  in  it? 

THE  QUEEN.  The  bitterness  of  my  heart.  It  will 
kill  you. 

THE  SAILOR.  I  have  been  poisoned.  (He  puts 
his  hand  to  his  side.)  I  am  dying.  But  first — ! 

He  draws  a  short  sword,  and  runs  at  her.  The 
fool  starts  up,  but  the  Queen  motions  him  away,  and 
waits.  When  the  sailor  is  almost  upon  her,  he  stops, 
throws  up  his  hands,  drops  his  sword,  and  falls  in  a 
heap. 

THE  QUEEN  (after  a  moment,  going  up,  and  touch 
ing  the  body  with  Iner  foot)  Dead.  So  that  is  what 
it  is  like? 

THE  FOOL  (trembling)  Do  you  find  it  so  interest 
ing? 

THE   QUEEN.     No — my   heart    is   already    aching 


ALONG    TIME    AGO  121 

with  its    emptiness    again.  .  .  .  What   shall   I   do? 

THE  FOOL.  You  might  poison  me,  too.  I  think 
I  would  die  in  a  more  original  manner  than  that 
silly  sailor.  Yes,  I  would  seize  you  in  my  arms 
and  kiss  you  before  I  died. 

THE  QUEEN.  That  would  be  amusing.  But  it 
is  a  pity  to  waste  kisses  on  a  dying  man.  And  be 
sides,  you  are  the  only  one  in  my  kingdom  who  under 
stands  me.  I  must  have  you  alive  to  talk  to. 

THE  FOOL.  There  are  strange  stories  about  the 
kisses  of  queens. 

THE  QUEEN.     Tell  them  to  me. 

THE  FOOL.  There  is  an  old  saying  that  three 
kisses  bestowed  by  a  queen  upon  a  fool  will  make  a 
hero  of  him. 

THE  QUEEN.  That  might  be  interesting.  I  think 
I  will  try  it.  Come  to  me,  do  not  be  afraid.  This 
day  I  have  given  my  kisses  to  a  man  who  thought  no 
more  of  them  than  that  dead  sailor  there  of  the 
kisses  of  a  harlot.  What,  must  you  kneel?  Well, 
then,  upon  your  forehead. 

She  kisses  him  upon  the  forehead  as  he  kneels. 

He  slowly  rises,  and  as  he  rises  he  takes  on  dignity. 
His  fool's  cap  is  dropped  aside,  he  picks  up  the 
dead  sailor's  sword  and  girds  it  on  him. 

THE  QUEEN.  Ah,  it  is  true.  There  is  magic  in 
it.  You  are  handsome,  too.  I  am  not  sorry  to  have 
kissed  you. 

The  old  woman  comes  in. 


122  A    LONG    TIME    AGO 

THE  QUEEN.  Well,  what  is  the  news?  The  ship 
has  sailed,  has  it  not? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Straight  into  the  sunset.  (She 
sees  the  dead  man,  and  looks  at  the  Queen  and  at  the 
fool.)  Who  killed  him? 

THE  QUEEN.  I  killed  him.  He  was  left  behind, 
and  I  do  not  like  to  have  strangers  about. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  It  is  a  good  omen.  I  have  not 
seen  a  dead  man  for  twenty  years,  save  those  that 
died  of  sickness  and  old  age.  When  shall  we  have 
the  good  old  times  when  men  killed  each  other  with 
swords?  I  feel  that  it  is  coming.  When  shall  we 
fall  upon  the  four  kingdoms,  and  tear  them  to  pieces  ? 

THE  QUEEN.  Ah,  that  is  an  idea.  That  would  be 
something  to  do. 

THE  FOOL.  Hush  your  croakings,  old  woman,  and 
tell  us  the  news  that  you  have  come  with. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  How  do  you  know  that  I  come 
with  news?  -Where  is  your  cap,  fool? 

THE  FOOL.     Speak,  or  begone. 

THE  QUEEN.  Beware  of  this  man,  for  I  have  been 
making  a  hero  out  of  him. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.      Are  you  mad? 

THE  QUEEN.  Yes,  I  am  mad,  so  beware  of  me,  too, 
and  tell  your  news* 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  (tamed)  It  is  only  that  a  boat  has 
been  seen  to  put  out  from  the  ship,  and  is  coming 
back  to  shore. 

THE  QUEEN.     It  is  doubtless  a  present  for  me. 


A   LONG   TIME    AGO  123 

The  Prince  has  bethought  himself  to  pay  me  for  my 
kindness  to  him.  Go,  and  give  orders  that  any  men 
who  are  in  the  boat  are  to  be  brought  to  me,  with 
their  hands  tied  behind  them,  that  I  may  decide 
what  punishment  to  inflict  upon  them.  Let  it  be 
understood  that  we  do  not  like  strangers  in  this  king 
dom. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  (grimly)  It  shall  be  as  you  say. 

She  goes  out. 

THE  QUEEN.  And  now  I  must  finish  my  quaint 
task.  It  pleases  me  to  be  kissing  fools.  I  think 
it  is  becoming  a  habit  of  mine.  Come  to  this  garden 
bench,  where  he  and  I  sat  together,  and  I  will  kiss 
you  upon  the  mouth,  as  I  kissed  him.  Does  it  hurt 
you  for  me  to  say  that?  Good.  (They  sit  down.) 
You  are  the  only  one  in  the  kingdom  who  understands 
me.  Lift  up  your  head.  (She  kisses  him.  He  lifts 
his  head  proudly,  and  sits  beside  her  like  a  king.) 
You  are  silent.  Why  do  you  not  say  something  ap 
propriate? 

THE  FOOL.  What  I  have  to  say  will  be  with  my 
sword,  and  your  enemies  will  be  the  ones  to  hear  it. 

THE  QUEEN.  Ah,  I  forgot,  it  is  a  hero  I  am  mak 
ing  out  of  you,  and  all  a  hero  can  do  is  fight.  That  is 
a  stupid  thing.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  kissed  you. 

THE  FOOL.  You  will  not  be  sorry  when  I  have  de 
stroyed  your  enemies. 

THE  QUEEN.  Now  you  are  beginning  to  talk  like 
my  old  nurse.  It  is  well  enough  to  fight,  but  it 


124*  A    LONG   TIME    AGO 

should  be  for  amusement,  and  not  with  such  serious 
ness.  I  have  only  succeeded  in  making  you  dull. 
You  were  better  as  a  fool. 

The  Prince  enters,  with  his  hands  tied  behind  him, 
conducted  by  some  soldiers. 

THE  PRINCE  (indignantly)  Why  am  I  treated  in 
this  fashion? 

THE  QUEEN.        So  it  IS  yOU? 

She  looks  at  him  quietly. 

THE  PRINCE  (haughtily)  Order  that  these  bonds 
be  taken  from  my  wrists. 

THE  QUEEN.  We  do  not  like  strangers  in  this 
country.  You  were  tied  by  my  command,  and 
brought  here  that  I  might  decide  what  punishment 
to  mete  out  to  you.  Look,  this  was  one  of  your  men. 
(Pointing  to  the  dead  body)  Carry  it  away. 

The  soldiers  carry  off  the  body. 

THE  PRINCE.      Are  you  mad? 

THE  QUEEN.  So  it  would  seem.  (To  the  fool) 
Now  cut  his  bonds. 

THE  FOOL.  He  is  a  brave  man,  and  does  not  de 
serve  to  be  treated  in  this  manner. 

THE  PRINCE.  Who  are  you  that  you  should  plead 
for  me?  Have  I  not  seen  you  with  a  fool's  cap? 

THE  FOOL.     And  now  you  see  me  with  a  sword. 

He  cuts  the  Prince's  bonds. 

THE  PRINCE.  Leave  us.  I  wish  to  speak  with  the 
Queen. 

THE   QUEEN   (to    the  fool)    No,   stay.     (To  the 


A    LONG    TIME    AGO  125 

Prince)  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  speak. 
You  wish  to  tell  me  that  the  kisses  you  had  from  me 
were  so  sweet  that  you  would  like  to  buy  some  more, 
and  are  willing  to  put  off  your  journey  for  a  while. 

THE  PRINCE.  I  have  given  up  my  journey  for 
ever.  I  know  that  the  only  thing  that  is  real  in  all 
the  world  is  love.  You  are  scornful.  But  I  have 
neither  pride  nor  shame.  I  kneel  at  your  feet,  and 
beg  you  to  forgive  me  for  my  folly. 

He  kneels. 

THE  QUEEN.  It  is  a  pretty  speech.  But  you  are 
too  late.  I  have  forgotten  you.  While  they  were 
tying  your  hands,  I  was  kissing  this  man  upon  the 
mouth. 

THE  PRINCE  (springing  up)  It  is  a  lie! 

THE  FOOL.     Did  you  say  that  the  Queen  lies? 

He  draws  his  sword. 

THE  PRINCE.  I  do  not  fight  with  fools.  (To  the 
Queen)  Send  him  away,  and  have  him  beaten. 

THE  QUEEN.  Are  you  not  willing  to  fight  with  him 
for  me? 

THE  PRINCE.     What  do  you  mean? 

THE  QUEEN.  I  mean  that  I  have  a  new  appetite, 
the  appetite  for  death.  I  have  held  myself  too 
lightly,  I  have  gone  too  willingly  to  the  arms  of 
a  chance  lover.  Now  there  must  be  blood  to  sweeten 
the  kisses. 

THE  PRINCE.     Do  you  wish  this  fellow  killed? 

THE  QUEEN.     Or  you.     It  makes  no  difference — 


126  A    LONG    TIME    AGO 

not  the  least.  What  are  my  kisses,  that  I  should 
be  careful  to  whom  they  go? 

THE  PRINCE.  You  speak  strangely,  and  I  hardly 
know  you.  I  have  come  back  as  a  lover  and  not  as 
a  butcher. 

THE  QUEEN.  My  whim  has  changed — I  am  in  the 
mood  for  butchers,  now. 

THE  PRINCE.  Say  but  one  word  to  show  that  you 
still  love  me ! 

THE  QUEEN.     I  have  no  word  to  say. 

THE  PRINCE.     Doubt  makes  my  sword  heavy.  .  .   . 

THE  FOOL.  And  have  you  nothing  to  say  to 
me? 

THE  QUEEN.  You  remind  me.  Come.  I  must 
finish  what  I  have  begun. 

She  kisses  him  on  the  mouth — the  third  kiss. 

THE  PRINCE  (covering  his  eyes)  It  is  I  that  am 
mad. 

THE  FOOL.     Come,  if  you  are  not  afraid. 

They  go  out,  the  Prince  giving  one  long  look  at 
the  Queen,  whose  -face  remains  hard. 

It  has  become  a  dark  twilight. 

THE  QUEEN.  They  told  me  that  love  was  like  this 
— but  I  laughed,  and  did  not  believe. 

The  old  woman  comes  in. 

THE  QUEEN.     I  have  sent  him  out  to  die. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.       The  f  Ool  ? 

THE  QUEEN,     No?  no,  no,  my  lover,  my  beloved. 


A   LONG   TIME   AGO  127 

I  tortured  him  and  denied  him,  and  sent  him  out  to 
die. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  It  is  well  enough.  Death  is 
among  us  again,  and  the  old  times  have  come  back. 

There  are  sounds  of  fighting,  and  the  women  wait 
in  silence.  Then  the  sounds  cease,  and  slowly  the 
soldiers  bear  in  a  dead  body,  which  they  lay  on  the 
steps.  They  affix  torches  to  either  side  of  the  palace 
door,  and  go  out. 

THE  FOOL  (going  up  to  the  Queen,  and  holding  out 
his  sword  to  her,  hilt-foremost)  I  have  done  your 
bidding,  and  slain  a  brave  man.  Bid  some  one  take 
this  sword  and  slay  me. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  What  a  faintheart  you  are ! 
The  fool's  cap  is  on  you  still.  Put  back  your  sword 
in  your  scabbard.  You  will  make  a  soldier  yet. 

THE  QUEEN.  You  are  a  brave  man.  Put  back 
your  sword  in  your  scabbard,  and  may  it  destroy  all 
my  enemies  from  this  day  forth. 

THE  FOOL.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

THE  QUEEN.  I  have  created  you,  and  now  I 
must  give  you  work  to  do.  You  can  only  fight. 
Very  well,  then.  Take  my  soldiers,  and  lead  them 
to  the  kingdom  that  thrusts  its  chief  city  against  our 
kingdom's  walls.  There  should  be  good  fighting,  and 
much  spoil.  When  the  soldiers  have  glutted  them 
selves  with  wine  and  women,  let  the  city  be  set  on 
fire.  I  shall  look  every  night  for  a  light  in  the  sky, 


128  A    LONG    TIME    AGO 

and  when  it  comes  I  shall  know  it  is  my  bonfire. 
Perhaps  it  will  light  up  my  heart  for  a  moment. 
When  that  is  finished,  I  shall  find  you  other  bloody 
work.  Go. 

THE  FOOL.  I  understand.  You  shall  have  your 
bonfire.  Come,  old  woman,  I  want  some  of  your  ad 
vice. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  The  good  old  days  have  come 
back.  Ah,  the  smell  of  blood! 

They  go  out. 

The  queen  looks  over  at  the  dead  man  lying  on  the 
steps  between  the  torches,  and  gradually  her  face 
softens.  She  goes  over  slowly,  and  kneels  by  his 
side,  gazing  on  him.  She  kisses  his  mouth,  and  then 
rises,  goes  slowly  to  the  arbour,  and  sits  down. 
She  looks  away,  and  her  -face  becomes  hard  again. 

A  sound  of  trumpets  and  shouting,  the  menacing 
prelude  of  war,  is  heard  outside. 


ENIGMA 

A  DOMESTIC    CONVERSATION 


To  THEODORE  DREISER 


"Enigma"  was  first  presented  at  the  Liberal  Club,  New  York 
City,  in  1915. 


A  man  and  woman  are  sitting  at  a  table,  talking 
in  bitter  tones. 

SHE.     So  that  is  what  you  think. 

HE.  Yes.  For  us  to  live  together  any  longer 
would  be  an  obscene  j  oke.  Let's  end  it  while  we  still 
have  some  sanity  and  decency  left. 

SHE.  Is  that  the  best  you  can  do  in  the  way  of 
sanity  and  decency — to  talk  like  that? 

HE.  You'd  like  to  cover  it  up  with  pretty  words, 
wouldn't  you?  Well,  we've  had  enough  of  that.  I 
feel  as  though  my  face  were  covered  with  spider  webs. 
I  want  to  brush  them  off  and  get  clean  again. 

SHE.  It's  not  my  fault  you've  got  weak  nerves. 
Why  don't  you  try  to  behave  like  a  gentleman,  in 
stead  of  a  hysterical  minor  poet? 

HE.  A  gentleman,  Helen,  would  have  strangled 
you  years  ago.  It  takes  a  man  with  crazy  notions 
of  freedom  and  generosity  to  be  the  fool  that  I've 
been. 

SHE.     I  suppose  you  blame  me  for  your  ideas  f 

HE,  I'm  past  blaming  anybody,  even  myself. 
Helen,  don't  you  realize  that  this  has  got  to  stop? 
We  are  cutting  each  other  to  pieces  with  knives. 

SHE.     You  want  me  to  go.  .  .  . 
131 


132  ENIGMA 


HE.  Or  I'll  go — it  makes  no  difference.  Only 
we've  got  to  separate,  definitely  and  for  ever. 

SHE.  You  really  think  there  is  no  possibility — of 
our  finding  some  way?  .  .  .  We  might  be  able — to 
find  some  way. 

HE.  We  found  some  way,  Helen — twice  before. 
And  this  is  what  it  comes  to.  .  .  .  There  are  limits  to 
my  capacity  for  self-delusion.  This  is  the  end. 

SHE.     Yes.     Only — 

HE.     Only  what? 

SHE.     It — it  seems  .   .  .     such  a  pity.  .  .  . 

HE.  Pity!  The  pity  is  this — that  we  should  sit 
here  and  haggle  about  our  hatred.  That's  all  there's 
left  between  us. 

SHE  (standing  up)  I  won't  haggle,  Paul.  If  you 
think  we  should  part,  we  shall  this  very  night.  But 
I  don't  want  to  part  this  way,  Paul.  I  know  I've 
hurt  you.  I  want  to  be  forgiven  before  I  go. 

HE  (standing  up  to  face  her)  Can't  we  finish  with- 
out  another  sentimental  lie?  I'm  in  no  mood  to  act 
out  a  pretty  scene  with  you. 

SHE.  That  was  unjust,  Paul.  You  know  I  don't 
mean  that.  What  I  want  is  to  make  you  understand, 
so  you  won't  hate  me. 

HE.  More  explanations.  I  thought  we  had  both 
got  tired  of  them.  I  used  to  think  it  possible  to  heal 
a  wound  by  words.  But  we  ought  to  know  better. 
They're  like  acid  in  it. 

SHE,     Please  doh't?  Paul*     This  is  the  last  time 


ENIGMA  133 


we  shall  ever  hurt  each  other.  Won't  you  listen  to 
me? 

HE.     Go  on. 

He  sits  down  wearily. 

SHE.  I  know  you  hate  me.  You  have  a  right  to. 
Not  just  because  I  was  faithless — but  because  I  was 
cruel.  I  don't  want  to  excuse  myself — but  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doing.  I  didn't  realize  I  was  hurt 
ing  you. 

HE.     We've  gone  over  that  a  thousand  times. 

SHE.  Yes.  I've  said  that  before.  And  you've 
answered  me  that  that  excuse  might  hold  for  the 
first  time,  but  not  for  the  second  and  the  third. 
You've  convicted  me  of  deliberate  cruelty  on  that. 
And  I've  never  had  anything  to  say.  I  couldn't 
say  anything,  because  the  truth  was  too  preposter 
ous.  It  wasn't  any  use  telling  it  before.  But  now 
I  want  you  to  know  the  real  reason. 

HE.     A  new  reason,  eh? 

SHE.  Something  I've  never  confessed  to  you. 
Yes.  It  is  true  that  I  was  cruel  to  you — deliber 
ately.  I  did  want  to  hurt  you.  And  do  you  know 
why?  I  wanted  to  shatter  that  Olympian  serenity  of 
yours.  You  were  too  strong,  too  self-confident* 
You  had  the  air  of  a  being  that  nothing  could  hurt. 
You  were  like  a  god. 

HE.  That  was  a  long  time  ago.  Was  I  ever 
Olympian?  I  had  forgotten  it.  Yoir  succeeded 
very  well — you  shattered  it  in  me. 


134  ENIGMA 


SHE.  You  are  still  Olympian.  And  I  still  hate 
you  for  it.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  suffer  now. 
But  I  have  lost  my  power  to  do  that. 

HE.  Aren't  you  contented  with  what  you  have 
done?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  suffered  enough 
recently  to  satisfy  even  your  ambitions. 

SHE.  No — or  you  couldn't  talk  like  that.  You 
sit  there — making  phrases.  Oh,  I  have  hurt  you  a 
little;  but  you  will  recover.  You  always  recovered 
quickly.  You  are  not  human.  If  you  were  human, 
you  would  remember  that  we  once  were  happy,  and 
be  a  little  sorry  that  all  that  is  over.  But  you 
can't  be  sorry.  You  have  made  up  your  mind,  and 
can  think  of  nothing  but  that. 

HE.  That's  an  interesting — and  novel — explana 
tion. 

SHE.  I  wonder  if  I  can't  make  you  understand. 
Paul — do  you  remember  when  we  fell  in  love? 

HE.  Something  of  that  sort  must  have  happened 
to  us. 

SHE.  No — it  happened  to  me.  It  didn't  happen 
to  you.  You  made  up  your  mind  and  walked  in, 
with  the  air  of  a  god  on  a  holiday.  It  was  I  who 
fell — headlong,  dizzy,  blind.  I  didn't  want  to  love 
you.  It  was  a  force  too  strong  for  me.  It  swept 
me  into  your  arms.  I  prayed  against  it.  I  had  to 
give  myself  to  you,  even  though  I  knew  you  hardly 
cared.  I  had  to — for  my  heart  was  no  longer  in  my 
own  breast.  It  was  in  your  hands,  to  do  what  you 


ENIGMA  135 


liked  with.     You  could  have  thrown  it  in  the  dust. 

HE.  This  is  all  very  romantic  and  exciting,  but 
tell  me — did  I  throw  it  in  the  dust? 

SHE.  It  pleased  you  not  to.  You  put  it  in  your 
pocket.  But  don't  you  realize  what  it  is  to  feel  that 
another  person  has  absolute  power  over  you?  No, 
for  you  have  never  felt  that  way.  You  have  never 
been  utterly  dependent  on  another  person  for  happi 
ness.  I  was  utterly  dependent  on  you.  It  humili 
ated  me,  angered  me.  I  rebelled  against  it,  but  it  was 
no  use.  You  see,  my  dear,  I  was  in  love  with  you. 
And  you  were  free,  and  your  heart  was  your  own, 
and  nobody  could  hurt  you. 

HE.  Very  fine — only  it  wasn't  true,  as  you  soon 
found  out. 

SHE.  When  I  found  it  out,  I  could  hardly  believe 
it.  It  wasn't  possible.  Why,  you  had  said  a  thou 
sand  times  that  you  would  not  be  jealous  if  I  were 
in  love  with  some  one  else,  too.  It  was  you  who  put 
the  idea  in  my  head.  It  seemed  a  part  of  your  super- 
humanness. 

HE.  I  did  talk  that  way.  But  I  wasn't  a  super 
man.  I  was  only  a  damned  fool. 

SHE.  And  Paul,  when  I  first  realized  that  it  might 
be  hurting  you — that  you  were  human  after  all — I 
stopped.  You  know  I  stopped. 

HE.      Yes — that  time. 

SHE.  Can't  you  understand?  I  stopped  because 
I  thought  you  were  a  person  like  myself,  suffering 


136  ENIGMA 


like  myself.  It  wasn't  easy  to  stop.  It  tore  me  to 
pieces.  But  I  suffered  rather  than  let  you  suffer. 
But  when  I  saw  you  recover  your  serenity  in  a  day 
while  the  love  that  I  had  struck  down  in  my  heart 
for  your  sake  cried  out  in  a  death  agony  for  months, 
I  felt  again  that  you  were  superior,  inhuman — and 
I  hated  you  for  it. 

HE.     Did  I  deceive  you  so  well  as  that? 

SHE.  And  when  the  next  time  came,  I  wanted  to  see 
if  it  was  real,  this  godlike  serenity  of  yours.  I 
wanted  to  tear  off  the  mask.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
suffer  as  I  had  suffered.  And  that  is  why  I  was 
cruel  to  you  the  second  time. 

HE.     And  the  third  time — what  about  that? 

She  bursts  into  tears,  and  sinks  to  the  floor,  with 
her  head  on  the  chair,  sheltered  by  her  arms.  Then 
she  looks  up. 

SHE.  Oh,  I  can't  talk  about  that — I  can't.  It's 
too  near. 

HE.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  wish  to  show  an 
unseemly  curiosity  about  your  private  affairs. 

SHE.  If  you  were  human,  you  would  know  that 
there  is  a  difference  between  one's  last  love  and  all 
that  have  gone  before.  I  can  talk  about  the  others 
— but  this  one  still  hurts. 

HE.  I  see.  Should  we  chance  to  meet  next  year, 
you  will  tell  me  about  it  then.  The  joys  of  new  love 
will  have  healed  the  pains  of  the  old. 

SHE.     There  will  be  no  more  joy  or  pain  of  love 


ENIGMA  137 


for  me.  You  do  not  believe  that.  But  that  part 
of  me  which  loves  is  dead.  Do  you  think  I  have  come 
through  all  this  unhurt?  No.  I  cannot  hope  any 
more,  I  cannot  believe.  There  is  nothing  left  for  me. 
All  I  have  left  is  regret  for  the  happiness  that 
you  and  I  have  spoiled  between  us.  .  .  .  Oh,  Paul, 
why  did  you  ever  teach  me  your  Olympian  philos 
ophy?  Why  did  you  make  me  think  that  we  were 
gods  and  could  do  whatever  we  chose?  If  we  had 
realized  that  we  were  only  weak  human  beings,  we 
might  have  saved  our  happiness! 

HE  (shaken)  We  tried  to  reckon  with  facts — I 
cannot  blame  myself  for  that.  The  facts  of  human 
nature :  people  do  have  love  affairs  within  love  affairs. 
I  was  not  faithful  to  you.  .  .  . 

SHE  (rising  to  her  feet)  But  you  had  the  decency  to 
be  dishonest  about  it.  You  did  not  tell  me  the  truth, 
in  spite  of  all  your  theories.  I  might  never  have 
found  out.  You  knew  better  than  to  shake  my  be 
lief  in  our  love.  But  I  trusted  your  philosophy,  and 
flaunted  my  lovers  before  you.  I  never  realized — 

HE.  Be  careful,  my  dear.  You  are  contradicting 
yourself ! 

SHE.  I  know  I  am.  I  don't  care.  I  no  longer 
know  what  the  truth  is.  I  only  know  that  I  am  filled 
with  remorse  for  what  has  happened.  Why  did  it 
happen?  Why  did  we  let  it  happen?  Why  didn't 
you  stop  me?  ...  I  want  it  back! 

HE.     But,  Helen ! 


138  ENIGMA 


SHE.  Yes — our  old  happiness.  .  .  .  Don't  you  re 
member,  Paul,  how  beautiful  everything  was — ? 
(She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  then  looks 
up  again.)  Give  it  back  to  me,  Paul! 

HE  (torn  with  conflicting  wishes)  Do  you  really  be 
lieve,  Helen  .  .  .  ? 

SHE.  I  know  we  can  be  happy  again.  It  was  all 
ours,  and  we  must  have  it  once  more,  just  as  it  was. 
(She  holds  out  her  hands.)  Paul !  Paul ! 

HE  (  desperately  )  Let  me  think ! 

SHE  (scornfully)  Oh,  your  thinking!  I  know! 
Think,  then — think  of  all  the  times  I've  been  cruel 
to  you.  Think  of  my  wantonness — my  wickedness — 
not  of  my  poor,  tormented  attempts  at  happiness. 
My  lovers,  yes !  Think  hard,  and  save  yourself 
from  any  more  discomfort.  .  .  .  But  no — you're  in 
no  danger.  .  .  . 

'HE.     What  do  you  mean? 

SHE  (laughing  hysterically)  You  haven't  believed 
what  I've  been  saying  all  this  while,  have  you? 

HE.     Almost. 

SHE.     Then  don't.     I've  been  lying. 

HE.     Again  ? 

SHE.     Again,  yes. 

HE.     I  suspected  it. 

SHE  (mockingly)  Wise  manf 

HE.     You  don't  love  me,  then? 

SHE.     Why  should  I  ?     Do  you  want  me  to  ? 


ENIGMA  139 


HE.  I  make  no  demands  upon  you.  You  know 
that. 

SHE.     You  can  get  along  without  me? 

HE  (coldly)  Why  not? 

SHE.     Good.     Then  I'll  tell  you  the  truth! 

HE.     That  would  be  interesting! 

SHE.  I  was  afraid  you  did  want  me!  And — I 
was  sorry  for  you,  Paul — I  thought  if  you  did,  I 
would  try  to  make  things  up  to  you,  by  starting 
over  again — if  you  wanted  to. 

HE.     So  that  was  it.   ... 

SHE.     Yes,  that  was  it.     And  so — 

HE  (harshly)  You  needn't  say  any  more.  Will 
you  go,  or  shall  I? 

SHE  (lightly)  I'm  going,  Paul.  But  I  think — 
since  we  may  not  meet  this  time  next  year — that  I'd 
better  tell  you  the  secret  of  that  third  time.  When 
you  asked  me  a  while  ago,  I  cried,  and  said  I  couldn't 
talk  about  it.  But  I  can  now. 

HE.     You  mean — 

SHE.  Yes.  My  last  cruelty.  I  had  a  special 
reason  for  'being  cruel  to  you.  Shan't  I  tell  you? 

HE.     Just  as  you  please. 

SHE.  My  reason  was  this:  I  had  learned  what 
it  is  to  love — and  I  knew  that  I  had  never  loved  you 
— never.  I  wanted  to  hurt  you  so  much  that  you 
would  leave  me.  I  wanted  to  hurt  you  in  such  a  way 
as  to  keep  you  from  ever  coming  near  me  again.  I 


140  ENIGMA 


was  afraid  that  if  you  did  forgive  me  and  take  me  in 
your  arms,  you  would  feel  me  shudder,  and  see  the 
terror  and  loathing  in  my  eyes.  I  wanted — for  even 
then  I  cared  for  you  a  little — to  spare  you  that. 

HE  (speaking  with  difficulty)  Are  you  going? 

SHE  (lifting  from  the  table  a  desk  calendar,  and 
tearing  a  leaf  from  it,  which  she  holds  in  front  of  him. 
Her  voice  is  tender  with  an  inexplicable  regret.) 
Did  you  notice  the  date?  It  is  the  eighth  of  June. 
Do  you  remember  what  day  that  is?  We  used  to 
celebrate  it  once  a  year.  It  is  the  day — (the  leaf 
flutters  to  the  table  in  front  of  him) — the  day  of  our 
first  kiss.  .  .  . 

He  sits  looking  at  her.  For  a  moment  it  seems 
clear  to  him  that  they  still  love  each  other,  and  that 
a  single  word  from  him,  a  mere  gesture,  the  holding 
out  of  his  arms  to  her,  will  reunite  them.  And  then 
he  doubts.  .  .  .  She  is  watching  him;  she  turns  at 
last  toward  the  door,  hesitates,  and  then  walks  slowly 
out.  When  she  has  gone  he  takes  up  the  torn  leaf 
from  the  calendar,  and  holds  it  in  his  hands,  looking 
at  it  with  the  air  of  a  man  confronted  by  an  unsolv- 
able  enigma. 


IBSEN  REVISITED 

A   PIECE   OF   FOOLISHNESS 


To  Louis  UNTERMEYER 


"Ibsen  Revisited"  was  first  produced  at  the  Liberal  Club,  in 
1914,  with  the  following  cast: 

The  Maid   Jo  Gotsch 

The  Stranger Floyd  Dell 


A  middle-class  interior. 

The  parlour-maid  is  dusting  the  -furniture. 

THE  MAID.  Oh,  how  dull  it  is  here!  Nobody  to 
talk  to,  nobody  to  flirt  with.  .  .  .  Flirt!  The  men 
that  come  to  this  house  don't  even  know  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  I  never  worked  in  such  a  place.  Life 
is  just  one  long  funeral.  I  wish  something  would 
happen.  (A  knock  at  the  door.)  Ah!  if  it  were 
only  in  the  old  days,  one  might  hope  that  that  was 
a  reporter.  But  nothing  like  that  now ! 

She  opens  the  door.     A  stranger  enters. 

THE  STRANGER.     Is — ah — Miss  Gabler  in? 

THE  MAID.     You  mean — Mrs.  Lovberg? 

THE  STRANGER.  Yes — but  .  .  .  I'm  not  mistaken, 
am  I?  Mrs.  Lovberg  is — or  was — Hedda  Gabler. 
Isn't  that  true? 

THE  MAID.  Oh,  yes,  it's  Hedda.  But  she  prefers 
to  be  called  by  her  husband's  name.  Did  you  wish  to 
see  her?  She  is  busy  just  now. 

THE  STRANGER.       Busy? 

THE  MAID.  Yes — she  is  conducting  her  class  in 
Modern  Adolescence. 

THE  STRANGER.     How  like  Hedda!     Always   ex- 
143 


144  IBSEN    REVISITED 

perimenting  with  something  or  other!  What  is  she 
teaching  them? 

THE  MAID.  She's  teaching  them  what  she  calls: 
"sex-unconsciousness." 

THE  STRANGER.  Dear  me!  What  is  sex-uncon 
sciousness  ? 

THE  MAID.     I'm  sure  7  don't  know,  sir. 

THE  STRANGER.  Dear,  delightful  Hedda!  Ever 
in  pursuit  of  the  new  sensation  I 

THE  MAID.  You  are  an  old  friend  of  hers,  I 
suppose? 

THE  STRANGER.  Well,  no,  not  exactly.  The  fact 
is — 

THE  MAID.  You're  not  a  reporter,  are  you? 
Hedda  doesn't  talk  to  reporters — any  more. 

THE  STRANGER.     No.     I'm  not  a  reporter. 

THE  MAID.     What  are  you,  then? 

THE  STRANGER.  I  am  the  representative  of  the 
International  Ibsen  Society.  You  know  who  Ibsen 
was,  of  course? 

THE  MAID.  Yes — he  was  that  nasty  man  who  wrote 
plays  about  everybody's  private  affairs. 

THE  STRANGER.  There  is  that  point  of  view,  of 
course.  I'm  sorry  to  intrude — 

THE  MAID.  I  should  think  you  would  be !  Now 
that  she  and  Lovberg  are  happily  married — 

THE  STRANGER.  That's  precisely  it.  You  see, 
we've  just  discovered  that  instead  of  committing  sui 
cide,  as  Ibsen  made  them  do  in  the  play,  they  eloped 


IBSEN    REVISITED  145 

and  were  eventually  married.  You  can't  imagine 
how  delighted  we  all  are  to  discover  that  Hedda  is 
still  alive.  As  soon  as  we  found  that  out,  I  was  sent 
here  immediately — 

THE  MAID.     What  did  you  think  you  would  see? 

THE  STRANGER.  See?  I  shall  see  a  woman  whose 
soul  burns  with  an  unquenchable  flame  of  divine  ad- 
venturousness.  I  shall  see  the  most  ardent,  impa 
tient,  eager,  restless,  impetuous,  and  insatiably  ro 
mantic  woman  in  the  world. 

THE  MAID  (pointing  to  the  door)  You  mean — her? 

THE  STRANGER.  Yes — why,  there  is  the  very 
sofa  upon  which  she  and  Lovberg  used  to  sit,  in  the 
old  days,  discussing  his  past.  There  he  would  sit 
and  tell  her  of  his  escapades,  his  affairs,  everything. 
Tell  me,  does  she  insist  on  Lovberg's  being  polyg 
amous,  whether  he  wants  bo  or  not? 

THE  MAID.  Evidently  you  don't  know  the  new 
Hedda.  Or  the  new  Lovberg  either.  The  only 
thing  they  talk  about  is  wha.t  they  call  "the  mo- 
nogamic  ideal." 

THE  STRANGER.  There  is  some  mistake.  I  will 
find  out  when  I  see  her.  Surely  she  is  still  interested 
in  adventure — -the  free  life — vine-leaves — beauty — ! 
I  will  remind  her  of  her  own  past — 

THE  MAID.  No  you  won't.  She  won't  let  you. 
She  will  tell  you  that  too  much  attention  is  paid  to 
such  foolishness  nowadays. 

THE  STRANGER.     She !  who  was  interested  in  noth- 


146  IBSEN    REVISITED 

ing  else!     But  then — what  is  she  interested  in,  now? 

TKE  MAID.     In  "co-operation." 

THE  STRANGER,  Has  she  then  turned  into  a  mere 
sociologist?  Oh,  you  are  deceiving  me! 

THE  MAID.  If  you  don't  believe  me — I'll  just  open 
the  door  an  inch,  and  you  can  hear  her  talking. 

THE  STRANGER.      Oh,  it  cannot  be  true ! 

The  maid  quietly  opens  the  door  a  little  way.  He 
listens. 

A  VOICE  (heard  through  the  aperture)  We  must  all 
learn  to  function  socially.  .  .  . 

The  maid  shuts  the  door  again. 

THE  MAID.     Do  you  believe  it  now? 

THE  STRANGER  (sadly)  It  is  too  true ! 

THE  MAID.     Didn't  I  tell  you? 

THE  STRANGER.  So  Hedda  has  become — a  re 
former  ! 

THE  MAID.     Yes. 

THE  STRANGER.     And  LoVberg — what  does  he  do? 

THE  MAID.  He  is  rewriting  his  book — you  know, 
the  one  Hedda  burned  up — for  use  as  a  text-book 
in  the  public  schools.  And  Hedda  is  helping  him. 

THE  STRANGER.  No  more  adventure — no  more 
beauty — the  flame  .  .  .  gone  out !  My  God ! 

He  staggers  toward  the  wall,  where  a  pistol  is 
hanging,  and  puts  his  hand  on  it. 

THE  MAID.  Look  out !  That's  Hedda's  pistol. 
You  never  can  tell  when  an  old  piece  of  junk  like 
that  is  loaded. 


IBSEN    REVISITED  147 

THE  STRANGER.  Yes — I  know.  (He  takes  it 
down  and  aims  it  at  his  heart.)  The  old  Hedda  is 
gone.  I  cannot  bear  the  new.  It  would  be  too — 
(The  maid  screams) — too  dull. 

He  fires,  and  falls. 

THE  MAID  (going  over  and  looking  down  at  him) 
But — people  don't  do  such  things  ! 


KING  ARTHUR'S  SOCKS 

A   COMEDY 


To  MAX  EASTMAN 


"King  Arthur's  Socks"  was  first  produced  by  the  Province- 
town  Players,  New  York  City,  in  1916,  with  the  following  cast: 

Guenevere  Robinson  .  Edna  James 

Vivien  Smith  Jane  Burr 

Mary     Augusta  Gary 

Lancelot  Jones  Max  Eastman 

Copyright,  1916,  by  Floyd  Dell    Reprinted  from  Province- 
town  Plays,  First  Series.     Copyright,  1916,  by  Frank  Shay. 


The  living  room  of  a  summer  cottage  in  Camelot, 
Maine.  A  pretty  woman  of  between  twenty- five  and 
thirty-five  is  sitting  in  a  big  chair  in  the  lamplight 
darning  socks.  She  is  Mrs.  Arthur  B.  Robinson — 
or,  to  give  her  her  own  name,  Guenevere.  She  is 
dressed  in  a  light  summer  frock,  and  with  her  feet 
elevated  on  a  settle  there  is  revealed  a  glimpse  of 
slender  silk-clad  ankles.  It  is  a  pleasant  summer 
evening,  and  one  might  wonder  why  so  attractive  a 
woman  should  be  sitting  at  home  darning  her  hus- 
band's  socks,  there  being  so  many  other  interesting 
things  to  do  in  this  world.  The  girl  standing  in  the 
doorway,  smiling  amusedly,  seems  to  wonder  at  it 
too.  The  girVs  name  is  Vivien  Smith. 

VIVIEN.     Hello,  Gwen ! 

GUENEVERE.     Hello,  Vivien !     Come  in. 

VIVIEN.     I'm  just  passing  by. 

GUENEVERE.  Come  in  and  console  me  for  a  min 
ute  or  two,  anyway.  I'm  a  widow  at  present. 

VIVIEN  (enters  and  lounges  against  the  mantel 
piece)  Arthur  gone  to  New  York  again? 

GUENEVERE.  Yes,  for  over  Sunday.  And  I'm 
lonely. 

VIVIEN.     You  don't   seem  to  mind.     Think  of  a 
151 


152     KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

woman  being  that  happy  darning  her  husband's 
socks ! 

GUENEVERE.  Stay  here  and  talk  to  me — unless 
you've  something  else  on.  It's  been  ages  since  I've 
seen  you. 

VIVIEN.  I'm  afraid  I  have  got  something  else  on, 
Gwen — I'll  give  you  one  guess. 

GUENEVERE.  You  can't  pretend  to  be  art-ing  at 
this  hour  of  the  night. 

VIVIEN.  I  could  pretend,  but  I  won't.  No,  Gwen 
dear,  it's  not  the  pursuit  of  art,  it's  the  pursuit  of  a 
man. 

GUENEVERE.  Don't  try  to  talk  like  a  woman  in  a 
Shaw  play.  I  don't  like  this  rigamarole  about  "pur 
suit."  Say  you're  in  love,  like  a  civilized  human 
being.  And  take  a  cigarette,  and  tell  me  about  it. 

VIVIEN  (lighting  a  cigarette)  I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  so  civilized,  at  that.  You  know  me,  Gwen. 
When  I  paint,  do  I  paint  like  a  lady? — or  like  a 
savage!  (She  does,  in  fact,  appear  to  be  a  very 
headstrong  and  reckless  young  woman.) 

GUENEVEUE  (mildly)  Oh,  be  a  savage  all  you  want 
to,  Gwen.  But  don't  tell  me  you're  going  in  for 
this  modern  free-love  stuff,  because  I  won't  believe 
it.  You're  not  that  kind  of  fool,  Vivien.  (She 
darns  placidly  away.) 

VIVIEN.  No,  I'm  not.  I'm  not  a  fool  at  all,  Gwen 
dear.  I  know  exactly  what  I  want — and  it  doesn't 
include  being  disowned  by  my  family  and  having  my 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      153 

picture  in  the  morning  papers.  Free-love?  Not  at 
all.  I  want  to  be  married. 

GUENEVERE.     Well,  f or  heaven's  sake,  who  is  it  ? 

VIVIEN.  Is  it  possible  that  it's  not  being  gossiped 
about?  You  really  haven't  heard? 

GUENEVERE.     Not  a  syllable. 

VIVIEN.     Then  I  shan't  tell  you. 

GUENEVERE.       But why  ? 

VIVIEN.  Because  you'll  think  I've  a  nerve  to  want 
him. 

GUENEVERE.  Nonsense.  I  don't  know  any  male 
person  in  these  parts  who  is  good  enough  for  you, 
Vivien. 

VIVIEN.  Thanks,  darling.  That's  just  what  I 
think  in  my  calmer  moments.  But  mostly  I'm  so 
crazy  about  him  that  I'm  almost  humble.  Can  you 
imagine  it? 

GUENEVERE.  Well,  what's  the  matter,  then? 
Doesn't  he  reciprocate?  You  don't  look  like  the  vic 
tim  of  a  hopeless  passion. 

VIVIEN.  Oh,  he's  in  love  with  me  all  right.  But 
he  doesn't  want  to  be.  He  says  being  in  love  inter 
feres  with  his  work. 

GUENEVERE.     What  nonsense ! 

VIVIEN.  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that!  I  think 
being  in  love  with  me  would  interfere  with  a  man's 
work.  I  should  hope  so ! 

GUENEVERE  (primly)  I  don't  interfere  with  Ar 
thur's  work. 


154      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

VIVIEN.  Arthur's  a  professor  of  philosophy.  Be 
sides,  Arthur  had  written  a  book  and  settled  down 
before  he  fell  in  love  with  you.  I'm  dealing  with  a 
man  who  has  his  work  still  to  do.  He  thinks  if  he 
had  about  three  years  of  peace  and  quiet  and  hard 
work,  he'd  put  something  big  across.  He  put  it 
up  to  me  as  a  fellow-artist.  I  know  just  how  he 
feels.  I  suppose  I  am  very  distracting! 

GUENEVERE.  Well,  why  don't  you  give  him  his 
three  years? 

VIVIEN.  Gwen!  What  do  you  think  I  am?  An 
altruist?  A  benefactor  of  humanity?  Well,  I'm 
not,  I'm  a  woman.  Three  years?  I've  given  him 
three  hours,  and  threatened  to  marry  a  man  back 
at  home  if  he  doesn't  make  up  his  mind  before  then. 

GUENEVERE.  Heavens,  Vivien,  you  are  a  savage  f 
Well,  did  it  work? 

VIVIEN.  I  don't  know.  The  three  hours  aren't 
up  yet.  I'm  going  around  to  get  my  answer  now.  I 
must  say  the  prospect  isn't  encouraging.  He  started 
to  pack  up  to  go  to  Boston.  He  says  he  won't  be 
bullied. 

GUENEVERE.     But  Vivien ! 

VIVIEN.  Oh,  don't  condole  with  me  yet,  Gwen 
dear.  It's  twelve  hours  before  that  morning  train, 
and  I'm  not  through  with  him  yet. 

GUENEVERE  (curiously)  What  are  you  going  to 
do? 

VIVIEN.     Nothing  crude,  Gwen  dear.     Oh,  there's 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      155 

lots  of  things  I  can  do.  Cry,  for  instance.  He's 
never  seen  a  woman  cry.  Maybe  you  think  I  can't 
cry? 

GUENEVERE.     It's  hard  to  imagine  you  crying. 

VIVIEN.  I  never  wanted  anything  badly  enough 
to  cry  for  it  before.  But  I  could  cry  my  heart  out 
for  him.  I've  absolutely  no  pride  left.  Well — I'm 
going  to  have  him,  that's  all.  (She  throws  her 
cigarette  into  the  grate,  and  starts  to  go.) 

GUENEVERE.  And  what  about  his  work?  Suppose 
it'j>  true — 

VIVIEN.  Suppose  it  is.  Then  his  work  will  have 
to  get  along  the  best  way  it  can.  (She  turns  at  the 
door.)  Do  I  look  like  a  loser? — or  a  winner! 

GUENEVERE.     I'll  bet  on  you,  Vivien. 

VIVIEN.     Thanks,    darling.     And    bye-bye. 

GUENEVERE  (stopping  her)  But  Vivien — !  I've 
been  racking  my  brain  to  think  who — ?  Do  tell 
me! 

VIVIEN  (in  the  doorway,  defiantly)  Well,  if  you 
must  know — it's  Lancelot  Jones. 

GUENEVERE  (springing  up,  amazed,  incredulous  and 
horrified)  Oh,  no,  Vivien !  Not  Lancelot ! 

VIVIEN.     Absolutely  yes. 

GUENEVERE.     But — 'but  he's  married  already  ! 

VIVIEN.     Oh,  is  that  what's  bothering  you? 

GUENEVERE.  I  should  rather  think  it  would  bother 
you,  Vivien! 

VIVIEN.    But  it  so  happens  that  it  doesn't.    I'm  not 


156     KING    ARTHUR'S    BOCKS 

breaking  up  a  marriage.  There  isn't  any  marriage 
there  to  break  up.  I  know  all  about  it.  Lancelot 
told  me.  That  marriage  was  ended  long  ago.  It's 
simply  that  he  has  never  got  a  divorce. 

GUENEVEHE.  But — but  if  that's  true,  why  hasn't 
he  got  a  divorce? 

VIVIEN.  On  purpose,  Gwen — as  a  protection ! 
Against  love-sick  females  like  me.  Against  getting 
married  again.  I  told  you  he  wanted  to  work. 

GUENEVERE.  But  Vivien !  If  he  hasn't  got  a  di 
vorce — 

VIVIEN.  He'll  have  to  get  one,  that's  all.  It 
won't  take  long.  And  in  the  meantime  we  can  be 
engaged. 

GUENEVERE.  A  funny  sort  of  engagement,  Vivien 
— to  a  married  man ! 

VIVIEN.  I  think  you're  very  unkind,  Gwen.  It 
isn't  funny  at  all.  It's  a  nuisance.  We'll  have  to 
wait  at  least  a  month!  I  think  you  might  sympa 
thize  with  me.  I  believe  you're  in  love  with  him  your 
self. 

GUENEVERE  (coldly)  Vivien ! 

VIVIEN  (contritely)  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  it. 
But  I  do  think  he's  so  terribly  nice — I  don't  see  how 
any  woman  can  help  being  in  love  with  him.  Well — 
I'm  off  to  his  studio,  to  learn  my  fate.  Wish  me 
luck,  if  you  can ! 

She  goes. 

GUENEVERE  (looks  after  her,  then  drifts  over  to  the 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      157 

mantel,  leans  against  it  staring  out  into  space,  and 
then  murmurs) — Lancelot! 

She  goes  slowly  back  to  her  chair,  sits  still  a 
moment,  and  then  quietly  resumes  the  darning  of 
socks. 

Enter,  from  the  side  door,  Mary,  the  pretty 
servant  girl,  who  fusses  about  at  the  back  of  the 
room. 

GUENEVERE  (absently)  Going,  Mary? 

MARY.  No,  ma'am.  I  don't  feel  like  going  out 
tonight. 

Something  in  her  tone  makes  Gueneuere  turn. 

GUENEVERE  (kindly)  Why,  Mary,  what  is  the 
matter? 

MARY  (struggling  with  her  sobs)  I'm  sorry,  ma'am, 
I  can't  help  it — I  wasn't  going  to  say  anything. 
But  when  you  spoke  to  me — 

GUENEVERE    (quietly)    What    is    it,    Mary? 

MARY.     I'm  a  wicked  girl!     (She  sobs  again.) 

GUENEVERE  (after  a  moment's  reflection.)  Yes? 
Tell  me  about  it. 

MARY.      Shall  I  tell  you? 

GUENEVERE.     Yes.     I  think  you'd  better  tell  me. 

MARY.  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  (She  comes  to 
Guenevere,  and  sinks  beside  her  chair.)  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  before  Mr.  Robinson  came  back.  I 
couldn't  tell  you  if  he  was  here. 

GUENEVERE  (smUing)  My  husband?  Are  you 
afraid  of  him,  Mary? 


158      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

MARY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE  (to  herself)  Poor  Arthur!  He  does 
frighten  people.  He  looks  so — just. 

MARY.  That's  what  it  is,  ma'am.  He  always 
makes  me  think  of  my  father. 

GUENEVERE.  Is  your  father  a  just  man,  too, 
Mary  ? 

MARY.  Yes,  ma'am.  He's  that  just  I'd  never  dare 
breathe  a  word  to  him  about  what  I've  done.  He'd 
put  me  out  of  the  house. 

GUENEVERE  (hesitating)  Is  it  so  bad,  Mary,  what 
you  have  done? 

MARY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE.  Do  you — do  you  want  to  tell  me  who 
it  is? 

MARY.     It's  Mr.  Jones,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE  (reflectively)  Jones?  (Then,  astound- 
edly) — Jones !  ( Incredulously)  — You  don't  mean — ! 
{Quietly) — Do  you  mean  Mr.  Lancelot  Jones? 

MARY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE.  This  is  terrible!  When  did  it  hap 
pen? 

MARY.  It — it  sort  of  happened  last  night,  ma'am. 
It  was  this  way — 

GUENEVERE.     No  details,  please! 

MARY.  No,  ma'am.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you 
how  it  was.  You  see,  ma'am,  I  went  to  his  studio — 

GUENEVERE  (iwable  to  bear  it)  Please,  Mary, 
please ! 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      159 

MARY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE.  I  don't  mean  that  I  blame  you.  One 
can't  help — falling  in  love.  .  .  . 

MAB.Y.     No,  you  just  can't  help  it,  can  you? 

GUENEVERE.  But  Lancelot — Mr.  Jones— -should 
have  behaved  better  than  that.  .  .  . 

MARY.     Should  he,  ma'am? 

GUENEVERE.  He  certainly  should.  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  him.  So  that  is  why —  Mary! 
Do  you  know — ?  But  I'm  not  sure  that  I  ought  to 
tell  you.  Still,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  protect  him. 
Do  you  know  that  he  is  going  away? 

MARY.     No,  ma'am.     Is  he? 

GUENEVERE.  Yes.  In  the  morning.  You  must 
go  to  see  him  tonight.  No,  you  can't  do  that.  .  .  . 
Oh,  this  is  terrible! 

MARY.     I'm  glad  he's  going  away,  Mrs.  Robinson. 

GUENEVE&E.     Are  you? 

MARY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE.       Why? 

MARY.  Because  I'd  be  so  ashamed  every  time  I 
saw  him. 

GUENEVERE  (looking  at  her  with  interest)  Really? 
I  didn't  know  people  felt  that  way.  Perhaps  it's  the 
right  way  to  feel.  But  I  didn't  suppose  anybody 
did.  So  you  want  him  to  go? 

MARY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE.  And  you  don't  feel  you've  any  claim 
on  him? 


i!60      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

MARY.     No,  ma'am.     Why  should  I? 

GUENEVERE.  Well!  I  really  don't  know.  But 
one  is  supposed  to.  Mary,  you  are  a  modern  woman ! 

MARY.     Am  I? 

GUENEVERE.  One  would  think,  after  what  hap 
pened — 

MARY.  That's  just  it,  ma'am.  If  it  had  been 
anything  else —  But  after  what  happened,  I  just 
want  never  to  see  him  again.  You  see,  ma'am,  it  was 
this  way — 

GUENEVERE  (gently)  Is  it  necessary  to  tell  me  that, 
Mary?  I  know  what  happened. 

MARY.  But  you  don't,  ma'am.  That's  just  it. 
I've  been  trying  to  tell  you  what  happened, 
ma'am. 

GUENEVERE.  Good  heavens,  was  it  so  horrible! 
Well,  go  on,  then.  (She  nerves  herself  to  hear  the 
worst.)  What  did  happen? 

MARY.     Nothing,  ma'am.  .  .  . 

GUENEVERE.     Nothing? 

MARY.     That's  just  it.  ... 

GUENEVERE.     But  I — I  don't  understand. 

MARY.  You  said  a  while  ago,  Mrs.  Robinson,  that 
you  couldn't  help  falling  in  love.  It's  true.  I 
tried  every  way  to  stop,  but  I  couldn't.  So  last 
night  I — I  went  to  his  studio — 

GUENEVERE.       Yes  ? 

MARY.  I  told  you  I  was  a  wicked  girl,  Mrs.  Rob 
inson.  You  know  I've  a  key  to  let  myself  in  to  clean 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      161 

up  for  him.     So  last  night  I  just  went  in.     He — he 
was  asleep — 

GUENEVERE.       Yes  ? 

MARY.     I — shall  I  tell  you,  ma'am? 

GUENEVERE.     Yes.     You  must  tell  me,  now. 

MARY.  And  I — (She  sits  kneeling,  looking  straight 
ahead,  and  continues  speaking,  in  a  dead  voice)  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I  put  my  arms  around  him. 

GUENEVERE.       Yes  ? 

MARY.  And  he  put  his  arms  around  me,  Mrs. 
Robinson,  and  kissed  me.  And  I  didn't  care  about 
anything  else,  then.  I  was  glad.  And  then — 

GUENEVERE.       Yes  ? 

MARY.  And  then  he  woke  up — and  he  was  angry 
at  me.  He  swore  at  me.  And  then  he  laughed,  and 
kissed  me  again,  and  put  me  out  of  the  room. 

GUENEVERE.     Yes,  yes.     And  that — that  was  all? 

MARY.  I  came  home.  I  thought  I  would  have 
died.  I  knew  I  had  been  wicked.  Oh,  Mrs.  Robin 
son —  (She  breaks  down*  and  sobs.) 

GUENEVERE  (patting  her  head)  Poor  child,  it's  all 
right.  You  aren't  so  wicked  as  you  think.  Oh, 
I'm  so  glad! 

MARY.  But  it's  jrnst  the  same,  Mrs.  Robinson. 
I  wanted  to  be  wicked. 

GUENEVERE.  Never  mind,  Mary.  We  all  want 
to  be  wicked  at  times.  But  something  always  hap 
pens.  It's  all  right.  You're  a  good  girl,  Mary, 
There,  stop  crying!  ...  Of  course,  of  course!  I 


162     KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

might  have  known.  Lancelot  couldn't — and  yet,  I 
wonder.  .  .  .  Mary,  stand  up  and  let  me  look  at 
you! 

MARY  (obeying)  Yes,  ma'am. 

GUENEVERE  (in  a  strange  tone)  You're  a  very 
good-looking  girl,  Mary.  ...  So  he  laughed,  and 
gave  you  a  kiss,  and  led  you  to  the  door  1  ...  Well ! 
Go  to  bed  and  think  no  more  about  it.  It's  all  right. 

MARY.  Do  you  really  think  so,  Mrs.  Robinson? 
Isn't  it  the  same  thing  if  you  want  to  be  wicked — 

GITENEVERE.  You're  talking  like  a  professor  of 
philosophy  now,  Mary.  And  you're  a  woman,  and 
you  ought  to  know  better.  No,  it  isn't  the  same 
thing,  at  all.  Run  along,  child. 

MARY.  Yes,  ma'am.  Thank  you,  ma'am.  Good 
night,  ma'am. 

She  goes. 

GUENEVERE.  Good-night,  Mary.  (She  returns 
to  her  darning.  She  smiles  to  herself,  then  'becomes 
serious,  stops  work,  and  looks  at  the  clock.  Then 
she  says) — Vivien!  Vivien's  tears!  Poor  Lance 
lot  !  Oh,  well !  (She  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  goes 
on  working.  Then  suddenly  she  puts  down  her  work, 
rises,  and  walks  restlessly  about  the  room.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  turns  and  stares 
at  the  door.  The  knock  is  repeated.  She  is  silent, 
motionless  for  a  moment.  Then  she  says,  almost  in  a 
whisper) — Come ! 

A  young  man  enters. 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      163 

GUENEVERE.     Lancelot ! 

LANCELOT.  Guencvcre !  (They  go  up  to  each 
other,  and  he  takes  both  her  hands.  They  stand  that 
way  for  a  moment.  Then  he  says  lightly) — Darn 
ing  King  Arthur's  socks,  I  see ! 

GUENEVERE  (releasing  herself,  and  going  back  to 
her  chair)  Yes.  Sit  down. 

LANCELOT.     Where's  his  royal  highness? 

GUENEVERE.  New  York.  Why  don't  you  ever 
come  to  see  us? 

LANCELOT  (not  amwering)  Charming  domestic  pic 
ture! 

GUENEVERE.     Don't  be  silly ! 

LANCELOT.     I  am  going  away. 

GUENEVERE.  Are  you?  I'm  sorry.  Don't  you 
like  our  little  village? 

LANCELOT.     Thought  I'd  stop  in  to  say  good-bye. 

GUENEVERE.     That's  very  sweet  of  you. 

LANCELOT  (rising)  I've  got  to  go  back  and  finish 
packing. 

GUENEVERE.     Not  really  ? 

LANCELOT.     Going  in  the  morning. 

GUENEVERE.  Why  the  haste?  The  summer's 
just  begun.  I  hear  you've  been  doing  some  awfully 
good  things.  I  was  going  over  to  see  them. 

LANCELOT.  Thanks.  Sorry  to  disappoint  you. 
But  I've  taken  it  into  my  head  to  leave. 

GUENEVERE.  You're  not  going  tonight,  anyway. 
Sit  down  and  talk  to  me. 


164      KING   ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

LANCELOT.  All  right.  (He  sits,  constrainedly.) 
What  shall  I  talk  about? 

GUENEVERE  (smiling)  Your  work. 

LANCELOT  (impatiently)  You're  not  interested  in 
my  work. 

GUENEVERE.     Your  love-aff airs,  then. 

LANCELOT.     Don't  want  to. 

GUENEVERE.  Then  read  to  me.  There's  some 
books  on  the  table. 

LANCELOT  (opening  a  serious-looking  magazine) 
Here's  an  article  on  "The  Concept  of  Happiness" — 
by  Professor  Arthur  B.  Robinson.  Shall  I  read 
that? 

GUENEVERE.  I  gather  that  you  are  not  as  fond 
of  my  husband  as  I  am,  Lancelot.  But  try  to  be 
nice  to  me,  anyway.  Read  some  poetry. 

LANCELOT  (takes  a  book  from  the  table,  and 
reads) — 

"It  needs  no  maxims  drawn  from  Socrates 
To  tell  me  this  is  madness  in  my  blood — " 

He  pauses.  She  looks  up  inquiringly.  Presently 
he  goes  on  reading — 

"Nor  does  what  wisdom  I  have  learned  from  these 
Serve  to  abate  my  most  unreasoned  mood. 
What  would  I  of  you?     What  gift  could  you  bring, 
That  to  await  you  in  the  common  street 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      165 

Sets  all  my  secret  ecstasy  a-wing 

Into  wild  regions  of  sublime  retreat? 

And  if  you  come,  you  will  speak  common  words — " 

He  stops,  and  flings  the  book  across  the  room. 
She  looks  up. 

GUENEVERE.     Don't  you  like  it? 

LANCELOT  (gloomily)  Hell!     That's  too  true. 

GUENEVERE,      Try  something  else. 

LANCELOT.  No — I  can't  read.  (Guenevere  bends 
to  her  darning.)  Shall  I  go? 

GUENEVERE.        No. 

LANCELOT.     Do  you  enj oy  seeing  me  suffer? 
GUENEVERE.     Does  talking  to  me  make  you  suffer? 

LANCELOT.       Yes. 

GUENEVERE.     I'm  sorry. 

LANCELOT.     Then  let  me  go. 

GUENEVERE.  No.  Sit  there  and  talk  to  me,  like 
a  rational  human  being. 

LANCELOT.  I'm  not  a  rational  human  being.  I'm 
a  fool.  A  crazy  fool. 

GUENEVERE  (smiling  at  him)  I  like  crazy  fools. 

LANCELOT  (desperately,  rising  as  he  speaks)  I 
am  going  to  be  married. 

GUENEVERE  (in  a  mocking  simulation  of  surprise) 
What,  again? 

LANCELOT.  Yes — again — and  as  soon  as  possible 
— to  Vivien. 

GUENEVERE,     I  congratulate  you. 


166     KING   ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

LANCELOT.     I  love  her. 
GUENEVERE.     Naturally. 
LANCELOT.     She  loves  me. 

GUENEVERE.        I  trust  SO. 

LANCELOT.  Then  why  should  I  be  at  this  moment 
aching  to  kiss  you?  Tell  me  that  ? 

GUENEVERE  (looHng  at  him  calmly)  It  does  seem 
strange. 

LANCELOT.  It  is  absolutely  insane!  It's  pre 
posterous  !  It's  contradictory ! 

GUENEVERE.     Are  you  quite  sure  it's  all  true? 

LANCELOT.  Yes !  I'm  sure  that  I  never  would 
commit  the  rashness  of  matrimony  again  without 
being  in  love.  Very  much  in  love.  And  I'm  equally 
sure  that  I  would  not  stand  here  and  tell  you  what  a 
fool  I  am  about  you,  if  that  weren't  true.  Do  you 
think  I  want  to  be  this  way?  It's  too  ridiculous — 
I  didn't  want  to  tell  you.  I  wanted  to  go.  You 
made  me  stay.  Well,  now  you  know  what  a  blither 
ing  lunatic  I  am. 

GUENEVERE  (quietly)  It  is  lunacy,  isn't  it? 

LANCELOT.       Is  it? 

GUENEVERE.  Sheer  lunacy.  In  love  with  one 
woman,  and  wanting  to  kiss  another.  Disgraceful, 
in  fact. 

LANCELOT.  I  know  what  you  think!  You  think 
I'm  paying  you  an  extremely  caddish  compliment — 
or  else — 

GUENEVERE  (earnestly,  as  she  rises)  No,  I  don't 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      167 

think  that  at  all,  Lancelot.  I  believe  you  when  you 
say  that  about  me.  And  I  don't  imagine  for  one 
moment  that  you're  not  really  in  love  with  Vivien. 
I  know  you  are.  I  could  pretend  to  myself  that 
you  weren't — just  as  you've  tried  to  pretend  to  your 
self  sometimes,  that  I'm  not  really  in  love  with 
Arthur.  But  you  know  I  am — don't  you? 

LANCELOT.       Yes.     .     .     . 

GUENEVERE.  Well,  Lancelot,  there  are — two  luna 
tics  here.  (He  stares  at  her.)  It's  almost  funny. 
I  don't  know  why  I'm  telling  you.  But — 

LANCELOT.        You ! 

GUENEVERE.     Yes.     I  want  to  kiss  you,  too. 

LANCELOT.  But  this  won't  do.  As  long  as  there 
was  only  one  of  us — 

GUENEVERE.  There's  been  two  all  along,  Lancelot. 
I've  more  self-control  than  you — that's  all.  But  I 
broke  down  tonight.  I  knew  I  oughtn't  to  tell  you 
— now.  But  I  knew  I  would. 

LANCELOT.       You,  too  ! 

They  have  unconsciously  circled  about  to  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  room. 

GUENEVERE.  Oh,  well,  Lance,  I  fancy  we  aren't 
the  only  ones.  It's  a  common  human  failing,  no 
doubt.  Lots  of  people  must  feel  this  way. 

LANCELOT.     What  do  they  do  about  it? 

GUENEVERE.  Well,  it  all  depends  on  what  kind  of 
people  they  are.  Some  of  them  go  ahead  and  kiss. 
Others  think  of  the  consequences. 


168      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

LANCELOT.  Well,  let's  think  of  the  consequences, 
then.  What  are  they?  I  forget. 

GUENEVERE.  I  don't.  I'm  keeping  them  very 
clearly  in  mind.  In  the  first  place — 

LANCELOT.       Yes  ? 

GUENEVERE.  What  was  it?  Yes — in  the  first 
place,  we  would  be  sorry.  And  in  the  second  place — 

LANCELOT.     In  the  second  place — 

GUENEVERE.  In  the  second  place — I  forget  what's 
in  the  second  place.  But  in  the  third  place  we 
mustn't.  Isn't  that  enough? 

LANCELOT.  Yes.  I  know  we  mustn't.  But — I 
feel  that  we  are  going  to. 

GUENEVERE.     Please  don't  say  that. 

LANCELOT.  But  isn't  it  true?  Don't  you  feel 
that,  too? 

GUENEVERE.       Yes. 

LANCELOT.     Then  we're  lost. 

GUENEVERE.     No.     We  must  think ! 

LANCELOT.     I  can't  think. 

GUENEVERE.     Try. 

LANCELOT.  It's  no  use.  I  can't  even  remember 
"in  the  first  place,"  now. 

GUENEVERE.     Then — before  we  do  remember — ! 

He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  They  kiss  each  other 
— a  long,  long  kiss. 

LANCELOT.     Sweetheart ! 

GUENEVERE  (holding  him  at  arm's  length)  That 
was  in  the  second  place,  Lancelot.  If  we  kiss  each 


KING   ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      169 

other,  we'll  begin  saying  things  like  that — and  per 
haps  believing  them. 

LANCELOT.     What  did  I  say? 

GUENEVERE.     Something  very  foolish. 

LANCELOT.     What,  darling? 

GUENEVERE.  There,  you  did  it  again.  Stop,  or 
I  shall  be  doing  it,  too.  I  want  to,  you  know. 

LANCELOT.     Want  what? 

GUENEVERE.  To  call  you  darling,  and  believe  I'm 
in  love  with  you. 

LANCELOT.     Aren't  you? 

GUENEVERE.     I  mustn't  be. 

LANCELOT.     But  aren't  you? 

GUENEVERE.  Oh,  I —  (She  closes  her  eyes,  and 
he  draws  her  to  him.  Suddenly  she  frees  herself.) 
No!  Lancelot — no!  I'm  not  in  love  with  you. 
And  you're  not  in  love  with  me.  We're  just  two 
wicked  people  who  want  to  kiss  each  other. 

LANCELOT.  Wicked?  I  don't  feel  wicked.  Do 
you? 

GUENEVERE.  No.  I  just  feel  natural.  But  it's 
the  same  thing.  (He  approaches  her  with  out 
stretched  arms.  She  retreats  behind  the  chair.) 
No,  no.  Remember  that  I'm  married. 

LANCELOT.     I  don't  care. 

GUENEVERE.     Then  remember  that  you're  engaged ! 

LANCELOT.     Engaged? 

GUENEVERE.     Yes  i  to  Vivien. 

LANCELOT  (stopping  short)  So  I  am. 


170      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

GUENEVERE.     And  you're  in  love  with  her. 

LANCELOT.     That's  true. 

GUENEVERE.  You  see  now  that  you  can't  kiss  me, 
don't  you? 

LANCELOT  (dazedly)  Yes. 

GUENEVERE.  Then  thank  heavens !  for  I  was  about 
to  let  you.  And  that's  in  the  fifth  place,  Lancelot: 
if  we  kiss  each  other  once,  we're  sure  to  do  it  again 
and  again — and  again.  Now  go  over  there  and  sit 
down,  and  we'll  talk  sanely  and  sensibly. 

LANCELOT  (obeying)  Heavens,  what  a  moment! 
I'm  not  over  it  yet. 

GUENEVERE.  Neither  am  I.  We're  a  pair  of  sil 
lies,  aren't  we?  I  never  thought  I  should  ever  be 
have  in  such  a  fashion. 

LANCELOT.  It  was  my  fault.  I  shouldn't  have 
started  it. 

GUENEVERE.     I  am  as  much  to  blame  as  you. 

LANCELOT.     I'm  sorry. 

GUENEVERE.     Are  you? 

LANCELOT.     I  ought  to  be.     But  I'm  not,  exactly. 

GUENEVERE.     I'm  not  either,  I'm  ashamed  to  say. 

LANCELOT.  The  truth  is,  I  want  to  kiss  you 
again. 

GUENEVERE.  And  I  ...  But  do  you  call  this 
talking  sensibly? 

LANCELOT.  I  suppose  it  isn't.  Well,  go  ahead 
with  your  sixth  place,  then.  Only,  for  heaven's  sake 
try  and  say  something  that  will  really  do  some  good ! 


KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      171 

GUENEVERE.  Very  well,  Lancelot.  Do  you  really 
want  to  elope  with  me? 

LANCELOT.     Very  much. 

GUENEVERE.  That's  not  the  right  answer.  You 
know  perfectly  well  you  want  to  do  nothing  of  the 
sort.  What !  Scandalize  everybody,  and  ruin  my 
reputation,  and  break  Vivien's  heart? 

LANCELOT.  No — I  don't  suppose  I  really  want 
to  do  any  of  those  things. 

GUENEVERE.  Then  do  you  want  us  to  conduct  a 
secret  and  vulgar  intrigue? 

LANCELOT  (hurt)  Guenevere! 

GUENEVERE.  You  realize,  of  course,  that  this 
madness  of  ours  might  last  no  longer  than  a  month? 

LANCELOT  (soberly)  Perhaps. 

GUENEVERE.  Well,  do  you  still  want  to  kiss  me? 
— Think  what  you  are  saying,  Lancelot,  for  I 
may  let  you.  And  that  kiss  may  be  the  beginning 
of  the  catastrophe.  (She  moves  toward  him.)  Do 
you  want  a  kiss  that  brings  with  it  grief  and  fear 
and  danger  and  heartbreak? 

LANCELOT.        No 

GUENEVERE.      Then  what  do  you  want? 

LANCELOT.     I  want — a  kiss. 

GUENEVERE.  Never.  If  you  had  believed,  for  one 
your  chance. 

LANCELOT.     Kiss  me! 

GUENEVERE.  Never.  If  you  had  believed,  for  one 
moment,  that  it  was  worth  the  price  of  grief  and 


172      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

heartbreak,  I  should  have  believed  it  too,  and  kissed 
you,  and  not  cared  what  happened.  I  should  have 
risked  the  love  of  my  husband  and  the  happiness  of 
your  sweetheart  without  a  qualm.  And  who  knows? 
It  might  have  been  worth  it.  An  hour  from  now 
I  shall  be  sure  it  wasn't;  I  shall  be  sure  it  was  all 
blind,  wicked  folly.  But  now  I  am  a  little  sorry. 
I  wanted  to  gamble  with  fate.  I  wanted  us  to  stake 
our  two  lives  recklessly  upon  a  kiss — and  see  what 
happened.  And  you  couldn't.  It  wasn't  a  moment  of 
beauty  and  terror  to  you.  You  didn't  want  to 
challenge  fate.  You  just  wanted  to  kiss  me.  .  .  . 
Go! 

LANCELOT  (turning  on  her  bitterly)  You  women! 
Because  you  are  afraid,  you  accuse  us  of  being 
cowards. 

GUENEVERE.     What  do  you  mean? 

LANCELOT  (brutally)  You!  You  want  a  love- 
affair.  Your  common  sense  tells  you  it's  folly.  Your 
reason  won't  allow  it.  So  you  want  your  common 
sense  to  be  overwhelmed,  your  reason  lost.  You 
want  to  be  swept  off  your  feet.  You  want  to  be 
made  to  do  something  you  don't  approve  of.  You 
want  to  be  wicked,  and  you  want  it  to  be  some  one 
else's  fault.  Tell  me — isn't  it  true? 

GUENEVERE.  Yes,  it  is  true — except  for  one  thing, 
Lancelot.  It's  true  that  I  wanted  you  to  sweep  me 
off  my  feet,  to  make  me  forget  everything;  it  was 
wrong,  it  was  foolish  of  me  to  want  it,  but  I  did. 


KING   ARTHUR'S    SOCKS      173 

Only — if  you  had  done  it,  you  wouldn't  have  been  "to 
blame."  I  should  have  loved  you  for  ever  because 
you  could  do  it.  And  now,  because  you  couldn't — I 
despise  you.  Now  you  know.  .  .  .  Go. 

LANCELOT.  No,  Guencvere,  you  don't  despise  me. 
You're  angry  with  me — and  angry  with  yourself — • 
because  you  couldn't  quite  forget  King  Arthur. 
You  are  blaming  me  and  I  am  blaming  you,  isn't  it 
amusing? 

GUENEVEEE.  You  are  right,  Lancelot.  It's  my 
fault.  Oh,  I  envy  women  who  can  dare  to  make  fools 
of  themselves — who  forget  everything  and  don't  care 
what  they  do!  I  suppose  that's  love — and  I'm  not 
up  to  it. 

LANCELOT.     You  are  different.  .   .  . 

GUENEVERE.  Different?  Yes,  I'm  a  coward. 
I'm  not  primitive  enough.  Despise  me.  You've  a 
right  to.  And — please  go. 

LANCELOT.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  very  primitive 
either,  Gwen.  I — 

GUENEVERE.  I'm  afraid  you're  not,  Lance. 
That's  the  trouble  with  us.  We're  civilized.  Hope 
lessly  civilized.  We  had  a  spark  of  the  old  barbaric 
flame — but  it  went  out.  We  put  it  out — quenched 
it  with  conversation.  No,  Lancelot,  we've  talked 
our  hour  away.  It's  time  for  you  to  pack  up. 
Good-bye.  (He  kisses  her  hand  lingermgly.)  You 
may  kiss  my  lips  if  you  like.  There's  not  the  slight 
est  danger.  We  were  unnecessarily  alarmed  about 


174?      KING    ARTHUR'S    SOCKS 

ourselves.     We      couldn't     misbehave!  .  .  .  Going? 

LANCELOT.     Damn  you !     Good-bye ! 

He  goes. 

GUENEVERE.  Well,  that  did  it.  If  he  had  stayed 
a  moment  longer — ! 

She  flings  up  her  arms  in  a  wild  gesture — then 
recovers  herself,  and  goes  to  her  chair,  where  she  sits 
down  and  quietly  resumes  the  darning  of  her  hus 
band's  socks. 


THE  RIM  OF  THE  WORLD 

A  FANTASY 


To  MARJORIE  JONES 


"The  Rim  of  the  World"  was  first  produced  by  the  Liberal 
Club,  New  York  City,  at  Webster  Hall,  in  1915,  with  the  follow 
ing  cast: 

The  Maid  Jo  Gotsch 

The  Gipsy  Floyd  Dell 

The  King Edward  Goodman 

The  Princess Marjorie  Jones 


Morning.  A  room  in  a  palace,  opening  on  a  bal 
cony.  Through  the  arched  broad  window  at  the 
back  is  seen  the  sky,  just  beginning  to  be  suffused 
with  the  rosy  streamings  of  dawn.  A  large,  wide 
heavy  seat  stands  on  a  dais,  with  a  low  square  stool 
beside  it.  A  girl  kneels  on  the  stool,  with  her  head 
and  arms  on  the  chair,  dozmg. 

The  darrk  figure  of  a  man  appears  on  the  balcony. 
He  puts  a  leg  over  the  window-ledge  and  climbs  in 
slowly. 

A  little  noise  wakes  the  girl.  She  stirs,  looks 
round,  jumps  up,  and  starts  to  scream. 

THE  MAN.     Oh,  not  so  loud ! 

THE  GIRL  {finishes  the  scream  in  a  subdued  voice). 

THE  MAN.  That's  better !  But  you  ought  to  be 
more  careful.  You  might  wake  somebody  up. 

THE  GIRL.     Who  are  you? 

THE  MAN.  That's  just  what  I  was  about  to  ask 
you — tell  me,  are  you  a  Princess,  or  a  maidservant? 

THE  GIRL.  A  Princess? — did  you  really  think  I 
might  be  a  Princess? 

THE  MAN.  Well,  there  are  pretty  Princesses.  But 
I  had  rather  you  were  a  maidservant. 

THE  GIRL.     Would  you?     Well,  so  I  am! 
177 


178     THE    RIMOP    THE    WORLD 

THE  MAN.  Thank  you,  my  dear.  And  what 
would  you  like  me  to  be  ? 

THE  MAID.  I'm  afraid  you're  somebody  not  quite 
proper ! 

THE  MAN.  Right,  my  dear.  You  are  a  person  of 
marvellous  discernment.  I  am,  in  fact — 

THE  MAID.     The  king  of  the  Gipsies ! 

THE  GIPSY.     How  did  you  know? 

THE  GIRL.     I  guessed  it ! 

THE  GIPSY.  H'm.  You  knew,  I  suppose,  that  our 
band  has  just  encamped  outside  the  city? 

THE  MAID.     Yes. 

THE  GIPSY.  And  you  have  heard  of  the  exploits  of 
the  Gipsy  king.  You  know  that  there  is  no  wall 
high  enough  to  keep  him  out,  no  force  of  soldiers 
strong  enough — 

THE  MAID.  I  know  it  by  your  eyes.  They  have 
the  gipsy  look  in  them. 

THE  GIPSY.  Where  have  you  ever  seen  gipsies  be 
fore? 

THE  MAID.  Never  mind.  But  tell  me — the  wall 
around  the  palace  is  seventeen  feet  high — 

THE  GIPSY.     True  enough! 

THE  MAID.  A  guard  of  soldiers  continually 
marches  around  it — 

THE  GIPSY.     Very  true! 

THE  MAID.  And  there  are  spikes  on  the  top. 
How  did  you  get  over? 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     179 

THE  GIPSY.  That  is  my  secret.  Would  I  be  the 
gipsy  king  if  everybody  knew  what  I  know? 

THE  MAID.     Won't  you  tell  me? 

THE  GIPSY.  Women  have  asked  me  that  many 
times.  But  I  never  tell.  But,  though  I  won't  tell 
you  how  I  entered,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  why. 

THE  MAID.     Oh,  I  know  that  already ! 

THE  GIPSY.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  I  am  a  thief 
as  well  as  a  housebreaker — that  it  is  in  the  hope  of 
royal  treasure  left  unguarded  that  I  have  come 
here.  .  .  . 

THE  MAID.  You  have  come  here  because  you  took 
a  fancy  to  see  what  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 
Isn't  that  it? 

THE  GIPSY.  At  last  I  have  found  some  one  in  this 
stupid  city  who  understands  me.  Young  woman — 

THE  MAID.     Yes? 

THE  GIPSY.  You  do  not  belong  here.  There  is 
no  one  here  who  does  things  because  they  are  foolish 
and  interesting.  Would  you  like  to  come  away 
with  me? 

THE  MAID.  Oh,  no.  You  must  not  think,  be 
cause  I  understand  you,  that  I  approve  of  you.  You 
see — • 

THE  GIPSY.      You  don't  approve  of  me? 

THE  MAID.  No — but  I  like  you.  I  can't  help  it. 
I  always  did  like  Gipsies.  You  see,  I  was  brought 
up  among  them. 


180     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  GIPSY.     You  a  Gipsy  child! 

THE  MAID.  I  suppose  I  was.  Though  I  always 
preferred  to  imagine  that  I  was  some  Princess  that 
had  been  changed  in  the  cradle  and  stolen  away. 
When  I  was  hardly  more  than  a  baby,  I  remember 
that  I  disapproved  of  their  rough  ways.  I  can 
still  faintly  remember  the  jolting  of  the  wagons  that 
kept  me  awake,  and  the  smell  of  the  soup  in  the 
big  kettle  over  the  fire. 

THE  GIPSY.     It  is  a  good  smell. 

THE  MAID.  But  I  did  not  think  so !  It  smelled  of 
garlic.  And  when  I  was  six  years  old,  I  ran  away. 
The  tribe  had  encamped  just  outside  the  city  here, 
and  I  wandered  away  from  the  tents,  and  entered 
the  city-gate,  and  hid  myself,  and  at  night  I  came 
straight  to  the  palace.  The  soldiers  found  me,  and 
took  me  to  the  old  king.  He  said  that  I  should  be 
the  child  of  the  palace.  So  they  gave  me  white  bread 
with  butter  on  it,  and  put  me  to  sleep  between  smooth 
white  sheets. 

THE  GIPSY.  Gipsy  children  cannot  thrive  when 
they  are  taken  into  cities.  They  turn  away  from 
white  bread  with  butter  on  it,  and  remembering  the 
good  smell  of  the  soup  in  the  big  kettle  over  the  fire, 
they  fall  sick  with  hunger.  As  for  you — 

THE  MAID.  I  thrived  on  the  white  bread  with  butter 
on  it. 

THE  GIPSY.  You  were  a  little  renegade.  But  I 
forgive  you!  And  now  to  my  business.  I  have 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD    181 

come  to  see  the  King,  and  talk  with  him.  We  kings 
should  become  better  acquainted,  don't  you  think? 
I  will  ask  him  what  he  considers  the  proper  price 
for  telling  fortunes,  and  find  out  what  his  ideas  are 
on  the  subject  of  horse-trading.  And  no  doubt  he 
will  ask  me  what  I  think  about  his  coming  marriage 
with  the  Princess  of  Basque.  She  is  to  arrive  to 
night,  I  believe,  and  be  married  tomorrow,  to  this 
King  whom  she  has  never  seen! 

THE  MAID.  Be  careful,  or  you  will  awaken  him. 
That  is  his  bed-chamber,  there. 

THE  GIPSY.      Ah!    Is  he  a  light  sleeper? 

THE  MAID.  The  King  sleeps  soundly,  and  awakens 
punctually  every  morning  at  six. 

THE  GIPSY  (with  a  glance  at  the  sky)  It  is  not 
quite  six.  Every  morning,  you  say?  And  what 
then? 

THE  MAID.  He  goes  for  a  walk  at  seven,  and 
breakfasts  at  eight.  Every  morning. 

THE  GIPSY.     Regularly? 

THE  MAID.  The  King  is  always  on  time  to  the 
moment. 

THE  GIPSY.     Ah,  one  of  those  clockwork  kings ! 

THE  MAID.  You  must  not  make  fun  of  him.  He 
is  a  good  king. 

THE  GIPSY.  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  And  his 
regularity  will  be  a  great  comfort  to  his  queen.  She 
will  always  know  that  she  will  get  her  kiss  regularly, 
punctually,  on  the  stroke  of  the  clock.  But — you 


THE    RIM   OF    THE   WORLD 

say  the  King  rises  at  six,  and  goes  for  a  walk  at 
seven.  What  does  he  do  in  the  meantime? 

THE  MAID.  First  he  comes  here  and  has  his  morn 
ing  drink.  Then  he  is  dressed  for  his  walk. 

THE  GIPSY.  And  what  is  your  part  in  these  solemn 
proceedings  ? 

THE  MAID.  I  tie  his  slippers  for  him,  and  pour  his 
drink. 

THE  GIPSY.  It  is  a  great  honour!  So  great  an 
honour  that  you  come  here  before  the  sun  is  up  to  be 
ready  for  your  duties.  Do  you  entertain  the  King 
with  conversation  while  he  takes  his  morning  drink? 

THE  MAID.     No — the  Gazetteer  does  that. 

THE  GIPSY.  The  Gazetteer — what  is  the  Gazet 
teer  ? 

THE  MAID.  The  Gazetteer  is  a  man  whose  duty 
it  is  to  find  out  all  that  happens  in  the  city  each  day, 
and  recite  it  to  the  King  the  next  morning. 

THE  GIPSY.  Has  the  King  as  much  curiosity  as 
that  ?  I  would  never  have  thought  it. 

THE  MAID.  It  isn't  curiosity.  It's  just  a  custom 
that  has  sprung  up.  All  the  merchants  and  well- 
to-do  people  hire  a  Gazetteer.  It  may  be  useful  to 
them — but  I  think  the  King  regards  it  more  as  a 
duty  than  a  pleasure. 

THE  GIPSY.  I  remember  now.  They  have  some 
thing  like  it  in  the  taverns.  I  foresee  a  great  fu 
ture  for  it. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     183 

THE  MAID.  And  it  seems  to  go  with  that  new 
drink. 

THE  GIPSY.     What  new  drink  ? 

THE  MAID.  Why,  the  new  drink  from  Arabia.  It 
has  a  queer  name.  Ka-Fe. 

THE  GIPSY.     Ka-Fe — and  what  is  it  like? 

THE  MAID.  It  is  dark,  and  served  hot  with  sugar 
and  cream. 

THE  GIPSY.  It  sounds  interesting.  I  would  like 
to  taste  it.  What  is  it  most  like — mead,  perhaps, 
or  wine,  or  that  strong  liquor  distilled  from  juniper 
berries  ? 

THE  MAID.  Like  none  of  these.  It  does  not  make 
men  talk  and  sing  and  tell  their  secrets  and  reveal 
their  love  and  their  hate,  and  knock  their  heads 
against  the  stars  and  tangle  their  feet  one  with  the 
other.  .  .  . 

THE  GIPSY.     Then  what  is  the  good  of  it? 

THE  MAID.  It  makes  the  head  clearer,  and  sobers 
the  judgment.  It  makes  men  think  more  and  talk 
less.  And  it  gives  them  strength  to  rule  their  in 
ward  feelings. 

THE  GIPSY.  What  a  pity!  People  are  too  much 
like  that  as  it  is. 

THE  MAID.  The  King  says  that  some  time  the 
whole  world  will  learn  to  drink  it ! 

THE  GIPSY.  A  world  of  Ka-Fe  drinkers!  A 
world  where  people  rule  their  inward  feelings  and 


184     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

hide  their  secret  thoughts!  I  shall  be  dead  before 
then,  thank  heaven! 

THE  MAID.  But  you  keep  your  secrets — even  from 
women — so  you  say. 

THE  GIPSY.  It  was  a  vain  boast.  Sometime,  with 
my  head  in  a  woman's  lap,  I  shall  blab  away  the  se 
crets  that  give  me  power.  I  know  it.  Somewhere  in 
the  world  is  a  woman  whose  look  will  intoxicate  me 
more  than  wine.  And  for  her  sake  I  shall  invent 
some  new  folly. 

THE  MAID.     What  a  pity ! 

THE  GIPSY.  No — the  thought  cheers  nre.  So  long 
as  there  are  women,  men  will  be  fools.  Their  Ka-Fe 
\vill  not  help  them. 

THE  MAID.     Do  you  approve  of  folly,  then? 

THE  GIPSY.  It  is  the  thing  that  makes  life  worth 
living.  I  have  committed  every  kind  of  folly  I 
know,  and  the  world  would  be  dull  and  empty  if 
I  did  not  think  that  some  new  and  greater  folly 
lay  ahead. 

THE  MAID.  You  think,  then,  that  one  should  sur 
render  oneself  to  folly? 

THE  GIPSY.  I  think  so  truly.  What  have  you 
on  the  tip  of  your  tongue?  What  folly  have  you 
given  yourself  to,  my  child? 

THE  MAID.     I  am  afraid  you  will  laugh  at  me.  .  .  . 

THE  GIPSY.  Not  I.  Tell  me,  my  dear,  are  you  in 
love  ? 

THE   MAID.       Yes. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     185 

THE  GIPSY.  With  some  one  who  will  never  give 
you  love  in  return? 

THE  MAID.     Yes.  .  .  . 

THE  GIPSY.     And  is  it — ? 

THE  MAID.  The  King — yes.  Oh,  I  am  a  fool  to 
tell  you ! 

She  hides  her  -face  in  her  hands. 

THE  GIPSY.  Listen,  my  child.  You  are  not  more 
a  fool  than  I.  The  other  day  I  rode  out  on  a  swift 
horse  to  be  by  myself  under  the  sky,  and  think  my 
thoughts.  And  there,  a  two  days'  journey  from  this 
city,  I  saw  the  slow-moving  caravan  of  the  Princess 
of  Basque,  on  her  way  to  wed  this  King  whom  she 
has  never  seen.  Curiosity  drew  me  near,  for  I 
wanted  to  see  the  face  of  the  Princess.  I  tied  my 
horse  to  a  tree,  and  hid  among  the  bushes  by  the  road 
side  as  they  passed.  I  saw  her  among  the  cushions 
of  the  royal  wagon.  She  had  a  strange,  wild  beauty. 
I  saw  her,  and  loved  her,  and  grew  sick  with  loneli 
ness.  I  rode  back  to  the  city,  and  tried  to  wash  out 
the  memory  of  that  face  with  wine.  But  it  was  no 
use,  so  I  left  the  tavern  and  climbed  the  wall  and 
entered  the  palace,  that  I  might  look  also  at  the  man 
whom  she  is  to  wed.  When  I  have  seen  him,  then  I 
shall — I  don't  know  what.  But — we  are  two  foolish 
ones,  you  and  I! 

THE  MAID.  Thank  you  for  telling  me  that.  But 
you  must  go  now.  It  is  almost  time  for  the  King 
to  come. 


186     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  GIPSY.  What  if  he  found  me  here — what 
would  he  do?  Have  me  beheaded,  or  merely  thrown 
into  prison? 

THE  MAID.  No — he  is  a  kind  king.  He  would 
only  tell  you  how  wrong  it  is  to  break  into  people's 
houses  and  show  disrespect  for  the  law. 

THE  GIPSY.  I  had  almost  rather  be  put  in  prison 
than  lectured  at.  Well,  I  must  invent  something  to 
explain  my  presence.  (There  is  a  knock.)  Who  is 
that? 

THE  MAID.     Hide  yourself.     I  will  see. 

THE  GIPSY  (from  behind  the  curtains  of  the  wm- 
dow)  I  am  hidden. 

The  maid  goes  to  the  door,  and  comes  back  with  a 
paper  in  her  hand. 

THE  GIPSY.     Well? 

THE  MAID  (looking  at  the  paper)  The  Gazetteer 
is  ill,  and  cannot  come. 

THE  GIPSY  (emerging  from  the  curtains)  The  Gaz 
etteer  is  ill.  .  .  . 

THE  MAID.     The  King  will  be  annoyed. 

THE  GIPSY.  We  will  spare  his  majesty  that  an 
noyance.  I  shall  be  the  King's  Gazetteer  this  morn 
ing! 

THE  MAID.     But  how  can  you? 

THE  GIPSY.  Leave  that  to  me.  (He  takes  his 
position  behind  the  curtains.)  Such  news  as  he  has 
never  heard,  I  shall  recite  to  the  King! 

THE  MAID.     Ssh!     Here  he  comes  now! 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     187 

The  King  enters,  in  his  dressing  gown,  yawning, 
with  his  hand  over  his  mouth.  In  the  midst  of  his 
yawn,  he  speaks. 

THE  KING.     Goo'  mo'ing ! 

THE  MAID  (bowing)  Good  morning,  your  majesty! 

THE  KING  (glancing  out  at  the  morning  sky)  Looks 
like  a  nice  day  today.  (He  sits  down.) 

THE  GIPSY  (from  slightly  behind  the  King's  seat) 
Not  a  cloud  in  your  majesty's  sky! 

THE  KING  (twisting  about  to  look  at  him)  And 
who  the  devil  are  you? 

THE  GIPSY  (coming  around  in  front  and  bowing) 
I  am  the  Gazetteer. 

THE  KING  (sputtermg)  What  are  you  trying  to 
palm  off  on  me?  You  are  not  my  Gazetteer!  My 
Gazetteer  is  decently  dressed  in  black  and  white. 
You  come  here  in  red  and  yellow.  What  does  it 
mean  ? 

THE  MAID.  Your  majesty,  your  own  Gazetteer  is 
ill  and  cannot  come,  so  he  has  sent  his  cousin,  who 
is  in  the  same  business. 

THE  KING  (disgustedly)  Bring  me  my  Ka-Fe. 
(The  maid  goes  out.)  Now  tell  me,  sirrah,  you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  used  by  respectable 
people  as  a  source  of  information?  I  cannot  believe 
it! 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  it  would  ill  become  me 
to  deprecate  the  character  of  my  clientele.  They 
may  not  be  rich,  they  may  not  be  influential,  but  they 


188     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

are  the  foundation  of  your  kingdom's  prosperity. 
And  I  must  say  for  myself  that  for  the  one  person 
that  your  Gazetteer  serves,  I  serve  many.  You  may 
sneer  at  my  quality  if  you  like,  but  I  point  to  my 
circulation.  I  am  the  official  Gazetteer  of  the  Red- 
Horse  Tavern,  and  scores  of  petty  tradesmen,  as 
well  as  clerks,  bricklayers  and  truckdrivers,  depend 
upon  me  for  their  knowledge  of  the  world's  events. 

THE  KING.  Well,  well !  So  you  are  in  your  humble 
way  an  agency  of  civilization! 

THE  GIPSY.     Your  majesty  may  well  say  so ! 

The  maid  has  returned  with  the  Ka-Fe.  She  puts 
the  tTay  on  the  floor  beside  the  seat,  and  kneels  by\ 
it.  The  King's  cup  she  places  on  the  stool  at  his 
hand. 

THE  KING  (sipping  his  Ka-Fe)  Very  well.  Pro 
ceed. 

THE  GIPSY  (reciting)  This  is  the  story  of  a  crime! 
The  shop  of  the  widow  Solomon  stands  in  the  middle 
of  the  great  street  which  takes  its  name  from  our 
King — may  he  live  long  and  prosper !  In  that  shop 
are  displayed  for  sale  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds, 
pearls,  and  all  manner  of  precious  stones,  set  in  rings 
and  chains  curiously  wrought  of  silver  and  gold. 
And  there  yesterday  came  a  band  of  robbers — not 
in  the  night,  when  all  men  are  asleep,  and  even  the 
watch-dog  dozes  beside  the  door — but  in  the  glare 
of  day,  intent  on  wickedness.  They  entered  the 
shop,  and  with  the  threat  of  death  stopped  up  the 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     189 

mouths  of  the  servitors.  Then  they  filled  a  large 
sack  with  their  precious  booty,  and  escaped.  They 
have  not  been  apprehended.  This  is  the  sixth  in 
the  series  of  daring  daylight  robberies  that  has  oc 
curred  within  the  month.  The  failure  of  the  police 
to  deal  with  this  situation  has  provoked  widespread 
comment  on  the  incompetency  of  the  King's  Chief 
of  Police,  and  there  are  some  who  assert  that  the 
police  are  in  league  with  the  robbers.  The  magnifi 
cent  new  house  which  the  Chief  of  Police  has  been 
erecting,  ostensibly  with  the  money  left  him  by  a 
rich  aunt  of  whom  nobody  ever  heard,  seems  to  lend 
colour  to  these — 

THE  KING.  What!  What!  What's  this?  Why,  I 
never  heard  such  impudence!  Fellow,  do  you  mean 
to  tell  me— 

He  becomes  speechless,  and  sets  down  his  Ka-Fe. 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  I  have  especially  soft 
ened  the  wording  of  this  piece  of  news  in  order  not 
to  offend  your  majesty's  ears.  But  in  substance 
that  is  the  story  which  was  told  last  night  at  every 
tavern  in  the  city. 

THE  KING.  But,  sirrah,  I  cannot  permit — I  simply 
cannot  permit — why — why — ! 

THE  GIPSY.  Suppose,  your  majesty,  we  skip  the 
police  news,  and  go  on  to  gentler  themes. 

THE  KING.     That  would  be  better — much  better. 

THE  GIPSY.     Shall  we  take  up — politics? 

THE  KING  (wearily)  Oh,  yes. 


190     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  GIPSY  (reciting)  A  debate  between  the  rival 
factions  who  seek  to  influence  the  governing  of  our 
kingdom  through  the  so-called  Council  of  Peers  was 
held  last  night  outdoors  in  the  public  market.  The 
rival  orators  exceeded  one  another  in  dullness  and 
hoarseness.  The  attendance  was  very  slight.  The 
general  public  takes  little  interest  in  these  proceed 
ings,  knowing  as  it  does  that  they  are  merely  a  di 
version  for  the  scions  of  old  families  whose  energies 
are  unemployed  except  in  time  of  war.  It  is  the  gen 
eral  feeling,  moreover,  that  the  King  may  be  depended 
upon  to  govern  the  kingdom  properly  without  the 
interference  of  these  aristocratic  meddlers. 

THE  KING.  Ah,  splendid,  splendid!  Let  us  hear 
that  again ! 

THE  GIPSY.     A  debate  between  the  rival  factions — 

THE  KING.  No,  no — the  last  part.  That  about 
meddling. 

THE  GIPSY.  It  is  the  general  feeling,  moreover, 
that  the  King  may  be  depended  upon  to  govern  the 
kingdom  properly — 

THE  KING.  Without  interference  from  these  aris 
tocratic  meddlers.  Yes,  yes !  Those  are  my  senti 
ments  exactly.  How  well  put  that  is — without  inter 
ference  !  Ah,  it  shows  that  I  am  appreciated  among 
the  lower  classes.  They  understand  me.  What  did 
you  say  they  were?  Petty  tradesmen  and  clerks  and 
bricklayers  ? 

THE  GIPSY,     And  truckdrivers,  your  majesty. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     191 

THE  KING.  And  truckdrivers.  Splendid  fellows, 
all  of  them.  As  you  said — the  backbone  of  my  king 
dom.  I  must  appoint  a  royal  commission  to  investi 
gate  the  welfare  of  the  truckdrivers.  The  Council 
of  Peers  will  object — but  I  shall  ignore  them. 
Broken-down  aristocrats !  what  do  they  know  about 
governing  a  kingdom?  They  are  useful  only  in  war 
time.  Fighting  is  their  only  talent.  In  times  of 
peace  they  are  a  nuisance.  I  shall  not  let  them  come 
between  me  and  my  people.  .  .  .  (He  rises,  and  with 
a  dignified  oratorical  gesture  addresses  an  imaginary 
audience) — Tradesmen!  Clerks!  Truckdrivers!  The 
time  has  come — (He  pauses,  frowns,  and  sits  down 
again. )  Never  mind  that  now.  Go  on  with  the  news. 

THE  GIPSY.  The  rest  of  the  political  news  is  un 
interesting,  your  majesty. 

THE  KING.  It  usually  is.  This  is  the  first  time 
it  has  ever  been  otherwise.  Turn  to  something  else. 

THE  GIPSY.  I  will  turn  to  the  society  items,  your 
majesty. 

THE  KING.       Good. 

THE  GIPSY  (reciting)  All  tongues  are  discussing  the 
approaching  nuptials  of  the  King  and  the  Princess 
of— 

THE  KING.  Tut !  tut !  I  fear  this  is  not  a  proper 
topic  for — 

THE  GIPSY.  It  is  a  matter  of  interest  to  all  your 
subjects,  your  majesty. 

THE  KING.     Well,  well — go  on.     A  public  figure 


192     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

like  myself  must  submit  to  having  his  private  affairs 
discussed.  It  is  unfortunate,  but — go  on. 

THE  GIPSY  (reciting) — the  approaching  nuptials 
of  the  King  and  the  Princess  of  Basque.  The  de 
tails  of  the  royal  bride's  trousseau  are  already  well 
known  to  the  public,  down  to  the  last  garter.  The 
six  embroidered  chemises  from  Astrakhan — 

The  maid  shows  great  interest.  The  King  is  em* 
barrassed. 

THE  KING.  But,  my  dear  fellow — really,  you 
know — !  This  is — ! 

THE  GIPSY.  Items  of  this  nature,  your  majesty, 
are  recited  in  the  bazaar  to  audiences  composed  ex 
clusively  of  women.  Under  the  circumstances  there 
is  surely  no  impropriety — 

THE  KING.  Very  well.  I  accept  your  explanation. 
But  as  your  present  audience  is  not  composed  ex 
clusively  of  women,  I  suggest  that  you  omit  those 
details. 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  I  omit  them.  The 
account  continues.  .  .  .  (Reciting)  The  marriage 
has  excellent  reasons  of  state  for  being  made,  inas 
much  as  it  cements  in  friendship  two  kingdoms  which 
have  been  at  war  with  each  other  off  and  on  for  a 
hundred  years.  But  it  has  its  romantic  side  as  well. 
It  is,  in  fact,  a  love-match.  The  fact  that  the  royal 
lovers  have  never  seen  each  other  only  emphasizes 
its  romantic  quality.  Their  joy  in  beholding  in  ac 
tuality  what  they  have  for  three  long  months  cher- 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     193 

ished  so  dearly  in  imagination,  is  a  theme  for  the  poet 
laureate — who  will,  however,  we  fear,  judging  from 
his  past  performances,  hardly  do  it  justice.  It  is, 
as  we  have  said,  a  love-match.  The  royal  pair  fell 
in  love  with  what  they  had  heard  of  each  other — 
the  Princess  of  Basque  with  the  image  she  had 
formed  in  her  mind  from  glowing  reports  of  the 
King's  valour,  amounting  to  rashness,  his  fluency  of 
poetic  speech,  his  manly  bearing,  and  his  irrepressible 
wit.  .  .  .  (The  King  nods  gravely  at  each  item.) 
While  the  King  became  madly  enamoured  of  the  repu 
tation  of  the  Princess  of  Basque  for  sweetness,  in 
dustry  in  good  works,  and  the  docility  which  be 
fits  a  wife,  even  of  a  King.  .  .  .  (The  King  nods 
gravely  at  these  items  also.)  She  is,  indeed,  a  pat 
tern  of  all  the  domestic  virtues — she  is  quiet,  obe 
dient,  dignified — 

There  is  a  cry  in  a  high  "feminine  voice,  outside. 
All  look  toward  the  window.  A  girl  appears,  run 
ning  past,  with  short  loose  hair  tossing  about  her 
face.  She  pauses,  and  flings  herself  over  the  window- 
ledge,  and  is  standing — panting,  red-cheeked,  smiling 
— in  the  room.  The  King  rises. 

THE  KING  (furious,  yet  coldly  polite)  And  who, 
in  the  name  of  the  sacred  traditions  of  womanhood, 
are  you? 

THE  FIGURE.     I — I  am  the  Princess  of  Basque! 

They  stare  at  her. 


194     THE    RIM   OF    THE    WORLD 

Mid-day.  Yellow  curtains  have  been  drawn  across 
the  broad  window.  On  the  wide  seat,  the  King, 
dressed  in  purple  robes,  sits  with  head  bowed  in 
thought.  .  .  .  There  is  a  noise  of  shouting  outside. 
The  King  looks  up. 

THE  KING  {sadly)  There  it  is  again. 

THE  GIPSY  (entering)  Your  majesty — 

THE  KING.     You?     What  are  you  doing  here? 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  the  palace  is  in  a  tur 
moil.  The  attendants  are  helping  the  soldiers  keep 
order  among  the  crowd  in  the  courtyard — the  gen- 
tlemen-in-waiting  are  receiving  deputations  with  wed 
ding  presents — the  women  are  distributing  medals 
bearing  the  image  of  the  bride.  All  the  city  is  cele 
brating  her  unexpected  arrival,  and  rejoicing  with 
you  in  your  presumed  happiness.  In  this  disturbed 
state  of  affairs,  7  have  been  drafted  into  your  maj 
esty's  service,  and  come  to  bring  you  a  message. 

THE  KING  (bitterly)  I  hoped  I  would  never  see  you 
again.  It  all  began  with  you.  If  I  were  a  super 
stitious  person  I  would  say  you  brought  misfortune 
with  you  into  this  house.  Before  you  came  this 
morning,  everything  was  as  it  had  always  been — 
orderly  and  regular. — What  is  your  message? 
That  madwoman  has  not  escaped,  has  she? 

THE  GIPSY.  The  young  woman  who  calls  herself 
the  Princess  of  Basque  is  safe  under  lock  and  key, 
according  to  your  majesty's  orders. 

THE  KING.     Is  she  well  guarded? 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     195 

THE  GIPSY.  The  soldier  who  conducted  her  from 
the  room  this  morning  is  keeping  guard  at  the  door, 
your  majesty.  I  recognized  him  by  the  black  eye 
she  gave  him. 

THE  KING.     Good.     What  is  your  news? 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  I  am  bidden  to  tell 
you  that  the  Royal  Archivist,  whom  you  bade  to 
search  through  the  histories  of  your  royal  ancestors 
for  some  precedent  to  guide  you  in  this  matter,  has 
locked  himself  with  his  forty  assistants  in  the  royal 
library,  and  cannot  be  roused  by  knocking. 

THE  KING.  They  have  fallen  asleep  among  the 
archives.  .  .  .  What  else? 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  the  Royal  Physician 
has  been  summoned,  according  to  your  orders,  to 
examine  the  young  woman  as  to  her  sanity.  But  she 
refuses  to  answer  all  questions,  asserting  that  she  is 
in  a  state  of  abounding  health,  and  is  in  no  need  of 
the  services  of  a  physician. 

THE  KING.  How  can  we  prove  her  mad  if  she  will 
not  answer  questions! 

THE  GIPSY.  Further,  I  am  bidden  to  tell  you  that 
the  watchman  on  the  tower  has  seen  two  horsemen  in 
the  far  distance  galloping  toward  the  city.  They 
come  by  the  eastern  road,  and  it  is  believed  that  they 
are  couriers  from  the  King  of  Basque. 

THE  KING.  This  matter  must  be  settled  before 
they  arrive.  Is  there  anything  else? 

THE  GIPSY.     Yes,  your  majesty.     The  Eldest  of 


196     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

the  Wise  Men  has  come  here  in  answer  to  your  sum 
mons. 

THE  KING.  Bring  him  in.  And  do  you  remain 
here  in  attendance. 

THE  GIPSY.     Yes,  your  majesty. 

He  goes  to  the  door. 

THE  KING.  This  would  never  have  happened  to 
my  ancestors.  Not  to  Otho,  nor  Magnus,  nor  Car- 
olus,  nor  Gavaine.  Am  I  less  than  these?  Perhaps 
I  am,  but  the  same  blood  flows  in  my  veins,  and  while 
it  flows  I  shall  rule  as  they  ruled. 

The  Gipsy  ushers  m  the  Eldest  of  the  Wise  Men. 

THE  WISE  MAN.     Your  majesty — 

THE  KING.  I  have  sent  for  you,  O  Eldest  of 
the  Wise  Men,  in  an  hour  of  extreme  perplexity. 
Not  lightly  would  I  have  torn  you  from  your  medi 
tations.  I  have  need  of  your  wisdom. 

THE  WISE  MAN.  Whatever  your  majesty  wishes  to 
know,  I  shall  answer  out  of  the  fulness  of  knowledge 
born  of  long  study  and  deep  reflection.  Speak,  O 
King!  Is  it  of  Infinity  that  you  would  ask?  or  of 
Eternity? — or  of  the  Absolute? 

THE  KING.  Nothing  so  simple.  I  want  to  know 
what  to  do  with  a  madwoman  who  climbed  in  at  my 
window  an  hour  since,  asserting  herself  to  be  the 
daughter  of  the  King  of  Basque,  and  my  affianced 
bride — and  with  a  misguided  populace  which  insists 
upon  celebrating  my  alleged  happiness.  (The  tu 
mult  is  heard  outside,  this  time  with  a  harsh  notq 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     197 

in  it.  The  King  starts,  turning  to  the  Gipsy.)  Is 
that  a  sound  of  rejoicing? 

THE  GIPSY.  No,  your  majesty.  That  sound 
means  that  the  rumour  has  just  spread  among  them 
that  the  Princess  of  Basque  has  been  falsely  im 
prisoned  in  the  palace.  They  are  calling  for  blood. 

THE  KING.     What!     An  uprising  against  me? 

THE  GIPSY.  Not  at  all,  your  majesty.  They 
hold  your  majesty  blameless.  They  believe  that  you 
have  been  deceived  by  the  false  counsel  of  the  Eld 
est  of  the  Wise  Men.  It  is  his  blood  they  are  calling 
for. 

THE  KING  (to  the  Eldest  of  the  Wise  Men)  There 
you  have  it !  That,  as  some  one  has  admirably 
phrased  it,  is  the  situation  in  a  nutshell.  What  shall 
we  do? 

THE  WISE  MAN   (stupefied)   But  your  majesty — ! 

THE  KING.  Your  advice — what  is  it?  Come,  be 
quick.  Out  of  your  wisdom,  born  of  long  study  and 
deep  reflection,  speak  the  word  that  shall  set  this 
jangled  chaos  in  order  once  more. 

THE  WISE  MAN.  Your  majesty,  I  am  afraid  I  do 
not  understand  these  things.  If  you  had  asked  me 
about  the  Absolute — 

THE  KING.  There  is  no  Absolute  any  more !  The 
Absolute  has  been  missing  from  this  kingdom — and 
for  all  I  know,  from  the  Universe — since  half-past 
six  o'clock  this  morning.  No  one  regrets  its  ab 
sence  more  than  I.  There  can  be  no  comfort,  no 


198     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

peace,  no  order,  without  an  Absolute.  But  we 
must  face  the  facts.  The  Absolute  is  gone,  and  this 
kingdom  will  be  without  one  until  I  restore  it  with 
my  own  hands.  I  shall  set  about  doing  so  imme 
diately.  And  meanwhile,  old  man,  you  had  better 
seek  some  safe  corner  where  my  misguided  populace 
cannot  lay  hands  on  you. 

THE  WISE  MAN.     Your  majesty — 

THE  KING.  Go.  We  have  business  to  attend  to. 
(The  Eldest  of  the  Wise  Men  goes  out.)  And  now, 
you  sharp-nosed  scoundrel,  I  want  some  of  your 
advice!  When  the  roof  of  the  world  has  fallen  in, 
there  are  no  precedents,  wisdom  is  worthless,  and 
the  opinion  of  one  man  is  as  good  as  that  of  an 
other, — if  not  better.  So  what  have  you  to  suggest? 

THE  GIPSY.  Your  majesty,  before  I  make  my  sug 
gestion,  let  me  confess  to  you  that  I  had  underrated 
the  force  of  your  majesty's  personality.  Not  until 
this  moment  have  I  understood  that  you  possess  the 
qualities  of  kingship  as  well  as  the  title  of  king. 

THE  KING.     Well,  what  of  that? 

THE  GIPSY.  This,  your  majesty.  There  is  only 
one  man  in  your  kingdom  who  can  cope  with  this 
girl  whom  you  call  mad.  Your  servants  cannot 
do  it.  As  I  passed  by  the  room  where  she  is  im 
prisoned,  I  heard  the  soldier  whose  eye  she  blacked 
talking  to  her.  He  was  saying  that  it  was  a  great 
honour  to  have  had  a  black  eye  from  her  hands,  and 
he  was  begging  her  autograph.  If  she  had  desired  to 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     199 

escape,  she  could  have  done  so — he  is  her  devoted 
slave.  And  the  doctor  who  went  to  examine  her  ag 
to  her  sanity  has  stayed  to  talk  to  her  about  horse- 
breaking.  That,  as  you  know,  is  his  avocation; 
and  he  has  found  in  her  a  woman  who  knows  more 
about  it  than  he  does.  He  sits  there  like  a  man  en 
tranced.  They  are  all  putty  in  her  hands. 

THE  KING,  (impatiently)  Get  to  the  point. 

THE  GIPSY.  I  have  said  that  there  is  only  one  man 
in  the  kingdom  who  can  cope  with  her.  And  that 
man  is  your  majesty's  self. 

THE  KING.       I? 

THE  GIPSY.     Yes — you  must  go  to  her  yourself. 

THE  KING.  There's  an  idea.  But  what  am  I  to 
do  then? 

THE  GIPSY.  Talk  to  her,  make  her  your  friend. 
Coax  her  secret  out  of  her,  and  you  will  find  that 
she  is  some  madcap  actress  from  a  travelling  com 
pany  of  mountebanks,  who  has  done  this  thing  in 
order  to  have  the  story  told  by  the  gazetteers  and 
bring  people  to  look  at  her.  Get  her  to  confess,  and 
then  let  her  story  spread  among  the  crowd — and  the 
whole  uprising  that  is  now  taxing  the  resources  of 
the  palace  guard  will  dissolve  in  a  burst  of  laughter. 

THE  KING.  I  will  do  it.  If  it  is  not  a  kingly 
duty,  I  shall  at  least  accomplish  it  in  a  kingly  man 
ner.  Thank  you,  my  friend.  But  what  is  this? 

THE  MAID  (entering)  Your  majesty — 

THE  KING.     Speak.     What  is  it? 


200     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  MAID.  Two  couriers  from  the  King  of  Basque 
have  arrived  on  foam-flecked  horses,  and  ask  to  see 
you  instantly. 

THE  KING.  Let  them  wait.  I  have  other  affairs 
in  hand.  Send  them  here  on  the  stroke  of  noon. 
(To  the  Gipsy)  Your  explanation  may  be  the  cor 
rect  one.  But  my  own  opinion  is  that  she  is  mad. 
Whatever  it  is,  I  shall  soon  have  the  truth. 

THE  GIPSY.     May  the  fortune  of  kings  attend  you ! 

The  King  goes  out.  The  Gipsy  and  the  maid 
seat  themselves  idly  on  the  edge  of  the  dais. 

THE  MAID.  Poor  woman !  No  doubt  she  went 
mad  with  love  of  the  King,  until  she  imagined  her 
self  to  be  his  bride.  I  can  understand  that !  Poor 
woman ! 

THE  GISPY.     I  am  almost  sorry  for  him. 

THE  MAID.     Sorry  for  him?     You  mean,  for  her! 

THE  GIPSY.  The  Princess  of  Basque  needs  none  to 
be  sorry  for  her.  She  can  take  care  of  herself — 
as  she  proved  on  the  eye  of  the  soldier  who  locked 
her  up. 

THE  MAID.  Then  you  believe  it?  That  she  is 
the  Princess  of  Basque? 

THE  GIPSY.     I  know  it.     Have  I  not  seen  her  face  ? 

THE  MAID.     Then  why  did  you  not  speak  up? 

THE  GIPSY.  Who  am  I,  to  interfere  in  the  pre- 
nuptial  courtesies  of  a  royal  pair?  Besides,  it  will 
give  her  an  insight  into  the  character  of  her  future 
husband. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     201 

THE  MAID.  You  are  very  unjust  to  the  King,  to 
say  that.  He  is  not  unkind.  He  only  had  her 
locked  up  because  he  thought  her  demented. 

THE  GIPSY.  Precisely.  Oh,  she  is  not  one  to 
mind  a  little  rough  handling.  She  gives  as  good  as 
she  gets.  She  will  not  hold  that  against  him.  But 
that  he  should  think  her  mad  because  she  came  unat 
tended,  at  an  unexpected  hour,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  laughing  lips  to  meet  her  lover — ! 

THE  MAID.  Because  she  came  climbing  in  at  the 
window  like  a  madwoman! 

THE  GIPSY.  You  think  as  the  King  does.  For 
you  there  are  no  ways  but  the  way  to  which  you  are 
accustomed.  That  is  sanity  to  you,  and  all  else 
is  madness.  You  have  a  map  of  life  which  is  like 
your  maps  of  the  world — with  all  the  safe  known 
places  marked  by  their  familiar  names,  and  out 
side  you  have  drawn  childish  pictures  of  fabulous 
beasts,  and  written,  "This  is  a  desert."  But  I 
tell  you  I  have  gone  into  these  deserts,  and  found 
good  green  grass  there,  and  sweet  spring  water, 
and  delightful  fruits.  And  beyond  them  I  have  seen 
great  mountains  and  stormy  seas.  .  .  .  And  I  shall 
go  back  some  day,  and  cross  those  mountains  and 
those  seas,  and  find  what  lies  beyond. 

THE  MAID.     Yes,  it  must  be  interesting  to  travel. 

THE  GIPSY  (brought  down  to  earth)  Forgive  me, 
child.  Do  you  know,  you  are  very  like  the  King. 
That  is  just  what  he  would  have  said. 


202    .THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  MAID  (pleased)  Is  it? 

THE  GIPSY.  Word  for  word.  You  are  the  femi 
nine  counterpart  of  your  ruler.  What  a  pity  you 
cannot  help  him  manage  his  kingdom ! 

THE  MAID.  Hush !  Here  he  comes  now !  And  she 
is  with  him ! 

They  rise  respectfully.  The  King  enters,  fol 
lowed  by  the  Princess  of  Basque. 

THE  KING.  We  can  conduct  our  conversation 
better  in  here.  (To  the  others)  Leave  us. 

THE  GIPSY.     Yes,  your  majesty. 

They  go  out. 

THE  KING.     Pray  be  seated,  madam. 

THE  PRINCESS.     In  your  majesty's  presence? 

THE  KING.  I  will  sit  down  too.  We  will  sit  here 
together.  It  is  unconventional,  but — there  is  no  one 
to  see.  Please! 

He  takes  her  by  the  hand  and  conducts  her  up  the 
dais  to  the  wide  seat.  He  seats  himself  beside  her. 

THE  PRINCESS.  It  is  very  kind  of  your  majesty 
to  give  so  much  of  your  time  to  a  troublesome  girl. 

THE  KING.  I  confess  that  I  find  it  a  pleasure  to 
converse  with  you.  It  is  a  relief  from  the  burden 
of  my  royal  responsibilities. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  did  not  know  that  a  king  had 
responsibilities.  I  thought  he  stood  above  such 
things. 

THE  KING.  My  responsibilities  are  many  and 
grave. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     203 

THE  PRINCESS.     Yes.     What   are  they? 

THE  KING.  It  would  take  too  long  to  enumerate 
them  in  detail.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  happiness 
of  a  whole  people  depends  on  me. 

THE  PRINCESS.  The  happiness  of  a  whole  people. 
.  .  .  That  means:  merchants — and  clerks — and— 

THE  KING.  And  bricklayers.  Yes,  and  truck- 
drivers.  They  look  to  me  for  their  happiness. 

THE  PRINCESS.  In  what  does  the  happiness  of 
a  truckdriver  consist,  0  King? 

THE  KING.  I  am  not  sure.  But  I  am  going  to 
appoint  a  royal  commission  to  find  out  for  me. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  can  tell  you  now.  The  happi 
ness  of  a  truckdriver  consists  in  drinking  beer  with 
his  friends  at  the  tavern  in  the  evening,  and  taking 
his  sweetheart  out  to  see  the  royal  menagerie  on 
Sunday  afternoon.  And  do  you  know  how  you  can 
best  subserve  that  happiness,  O  King?  By  letting 
him  alone,  to  drink  his  beer,  and  make  love  to  his 
sweetheart. 

THE  KING.  You  are  wrong.  You  must  be  wrong. 
If  the  happiness  of  a  people  were  as  simple  as  that, 
there  would  be  no  need  of  governments  and  kings 
to  promote  it. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Be  thankful,  0  King,  that  they 
do  not  know  that — -and  that  they  like  to  have  kings 
and  queens,  to  whom  they  give,  in  their  generosity, 
palaces  and  horses  and — and  silken  chemises  from 
Astrakhan!  Why  not  enjoy  the  gifts  we  have,  as 


204     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

the  truckdriver  enjoys  his  beer  and  his  sweetheart? 
Let  us  each  have  our  brief  flash  of  happiness  in  the 
sun,  O  King ! 

THE  KING.  Your  philosophy  is  the  deadly  enemy 
of  mine. 

THE  PRINCESS.  And  must  we  be  enemies  of  each 
other,  too? 

THE  KING.  Never,  madam.  Let  us  be  friends  in 
spite  of  our  opinions. 

THE  PRINCESS.     Your  majesty  is  very  gracious. 

THE  KING.  And  now  that  we  are  friends,  I  hope 
you  will  not  keep  up  the  jest  any  longer.  The 
lady  who  is  to  be  my  wife  and  queen  arrives  in  a 
few  hours.  You  can  see  how  necessary  it  is  that 
the  matter  be  cleared  up  before  she  comes.  You  will 
not  continue  to  embarrass  me? 

THE  PRINCESS.  Now  that  we  are  friends,  I  will 
tell  you  the  truth.  I  am  not  she  who  is  to  be  your 
wife  and  queen. 

THE  KING.  Thank  you.  And  in  return,  I  forgive 
you  freely  for  all  the  disturbances  you  have  caused 
to  me  and  my  kingdom. 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  am  sorry. 

THE  KING.  Of  course,  you  did  not  understand 
what  you  were  doing.  You  did  not  realize  how 
necessary  to  a  kingdom  is  the  tranquillity  which 
comes  only  from  perfect  order  and  regularity. 
There  has  not  been  such  a  day  as  this  before  in  the 
history  of  my  kingdom.  And  there  will  never  be 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     205 

such  a  day  again.  Tomorrow  all  will  be  smooth  and 
regular  again. 

THE  PEINCESS.  Smooth  and  regular!  Do  you 
mean  that  you  like  things  always  to  be  the  same,  with 
never  any  change? 

THE  KING.  I  happen  to  like  it,  yes.  But  it  is 
not  a  question  of  what  one  likes.  It  is  a  question 
of  what  is  necessary.  Even  if  I  did  not  like  order, 
I  would  have  to  submit  myself  to  its  routine.  That 
is  what  it  means  to  be  a  king. 

THE  PEINCESS.  And  is  that  what  it  means  to  be 
a  queen? 

THE  KING.  In  this  kingdom,  yes.  In  other  places, 
there  may  be  some  relaxation  of  the  traditional  rule 
which  compels  a  queen  to  be  in  every  way  a  pattern 
to  her  subjects.  But  the  queen  of  my  kingdom 
will  always  be  a  model  of  perfect  womanhood. 

THE  PRINCESS.  And  what  if  she  did  not  wish  to 
be? 

THE  KING.  She  would  learn  that  her  wishes  were 
unimportant. 

THE  PRINCESS.     And  if  she  refused  to  learn  that? 

THE  KING  {grimly)  I  would  teach  her. 

THE  PRINCESS  (with  flashing  eyes)  You  mean  you 
would  make  her  obey? 

THE  KING.  That  is  a  hard  saying.  But  this 
kingdom  has  not  been  built  up  with  centuries  of 
blood  and  toil  to  be  torn  down  at  the  whim  of  a 
foolish  girl.  I  have  a  duty  to  perform,  and  that 


206     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

is  to  hand  on  the  kingdom  to  my  descendants  as  it 
was  handed  on  to  me  from  my  great  ancestors,  Otho 
and  Magnus,  Carolus  and  Gavaine.  And  by  the 
blood  that  once  flowed  in  their  veins  and  now  flows 
in  mine,  I  will  so  do  it — and  rather  than  fail,  I  would 
break  into  pieces  a  woman's  body  and  a  wife's  heart. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  understand  you  fully.  And  may 
I  go  now? 

THE  KING.  First  you  must  tell  me  who  you  are 
and  how  you  came  to  play  this  mad  prank. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Your  majesty,  I  am  only  a  fool 
ish  girl.  I  will  not  tell  you  my  name,  but  I  came 
from  the  kingdom  of  Basque. 

THE  KING.  Have  you  ever  seen  the  Princess,  by 
any  chance? 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  was  in  the  royal  caravan. 

THE  KING.     Then  you  know  the  Princess ! 

THE  PRINCESS.  Not  so  well  as  I  thought,  your 
majesty.  But  I  had  heard  so  much  talk  of  her  com 
ing  marriage  and  of  her  great  happiness,  that  there 
was  nothing  else  in  my  mind.  I  dreamed  of  it  day 
and  night. 

THE  KING.     Poor  child. 

THE  PRINCESS.  You  may  well  say  so.  I  dreamed 
of  it  until  I  lost  all  sense  of  reality,  and  imagined  that 
I  was  that  happy  girl  who  was  going  to  meet  her 
lover. 

THE  KING.     Madness ! 

THE  PRINCESS.     It  was  madness — nothing  else.     I 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     207 

thought  I  was  to  become  free — to  throw  off  the  re 
straints  that  had  chafed  me  for  so  long  at  home. 
I  thought  I  was  going  to  see  everything  I  wished  to 
see,  and  do  everything  I  wished  to  do — to  follow 
every  impulse,  no  matter  where  it  led  me — to  commit 
every  pleasant  folly  I  chose — and  be  happy. 

THE  KING.     What  queer  notions ! 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  had  queerer  notions  than  that. 
I  thought  I  loved  a  man  that  I  had  never  seen.  I 
thought  he  loved  me.  I  pitied  myself  and  him  be 
cause  we  were  so  long  apart,  and  I  burned  to  go  to 
him.  So,  while  the  slow-moving  caravan  was  yet  far 
from  its  destination,  I  rose  secretly  in  the  night,  while 
the  others  slept,  and  saddled  the  fastest  horse  in  the 
train.  I  rode  under  the  stars,  with  only  one  thought 
— his  arms  about  me  at  the  journey's  end,  his  lips 
on  mine.  So  I  came  to  the  city.  I  scaled  the  walls, 
and  entered  the  palace  at  dawn. 

THE  KING.  But  tell  me — the  wall  around  the 
palace  is  seventeen  feet  high — 

THE  PRINCESS.     True  enough. 

THE  KING.  A  guard  of  soldiers  continually 
marches  around  it — 

THE  PRINCESS.     Very  true. 

THE  KING.  And  there  are  spikes  on  the  top. 
How  did  you  get  over? 

THE  PRINCESS.  That  is  my  secret.  The  rest  I 
have  told  you.  And  now  let  me  go. 

THE  KING.     Tell  me  one  thing  more — 


208     THE    RIM   OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  PRINCESS.  Nothing  more !  I  must  go !  I 
feel  that  if  I  stay  any  longer,  something  dreadful 
will  happen ! 

THE  KING  (taking  her  hand  and  detaining  her) 
What  do  you  fear? 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  feel  like  the  maiden  in  the  story 
who  was  told  that  if  she  stayed  till  the  clock  struck, 
she  would  be  changed  into  the  shape  of  an  animal. 
Something  tells  me  that  if  I  stay  here  till  the  clock 
strikes,  we  shall  both  be  transformed  into  beasts. 
Oh,  let  me  go! 

THE  KING.     No,  wait! 

The  clock  strikes  noon. 

THE  PRINCESS  (staring  at  the  door)  I  am  lost! 

THE  GIPSY  (at  the  door,  announcing)  The  couriers 
of  the  King  of  Basque! 

The  couriers  enter.  They  stare  amazed  at  the 
girl  seated  beside  the  King. 

FIRST  COURIER.     The  Princess! 

SECOND  COURIER.     Here! 

The  King  and  the  Princess  look  at  each  other. 
Then  the  King  speaks. 

THE  KING  (challengingly)  Where  should  the  Prin 
cess  be,  but  beside  her  affianced  husband? 

FIRST  COURIER.  We  came  to  tell  you  that  she  was 
missing  from  the  caravan. 

SECOND  COURIER.     We  feared  for  her  safety. 

THE  KING.     Your  fears  were  needless. 

FIRST  COURIER,     They  told  us — 


THE    RIM   OF    THE   WORLD     209 

THE  KING.  Never  mind  what  they  told  you. 
You  have  seen.  And  now  leave  us. 

THE  COURIERS.     Yes,  your  majesty. 

They  go,  the  Gipsy  following. 

THE  KING.  And  now,  with  apologies  for  the  mis 
understanding  and  delay,  let  me  welcome  you  to 
my  palace  and  my  arms — my  princess  and  my 
queen ! 

THE  PRINCESS.     You  will  not  hold  me  to  it! 

THE  KING.     We  cannot  escape  it. 

THE  PRINCESS.  But  I  am  no  fit  queen  for  you. 
You  know  what  I  am  like.  You  do  not  want  me 
for  a  wife ! 

THE  KING.  It  is  not  the  things  one  wants,  but 
the  things  that  are  necessary.  .  .  . 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  will  never  marry  you. 

THE  KING.     You  shall  marry  me  tomorrow. 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  cannot. 

THE  KING.  The  preparations  are  made  for  the 
wedding.  Two  kingdoms  hang  on  the  event. 

THE  PRINCESS.     Let  them  hang! 

THE  KING.  You,  the  daughter  of  my  father's 
ancient  foe,  are  to  unite  two  kingdoms  in  fraternal 
amity.  Do  you  understand?  War  and  peace  are 
in  the  balance. 

THE  PRINCESS.     War? 

THE  KING.     Or  peace.     It  rests  with  you. 
THE    PRINCESS.     I    begin    to    understand.     How 
strange  to  think  of  myself  as  a  peace-offering — a 


210     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

gift  from  one  kingdom  to  another !  Is  that  what  it 
means  to  be  a  Princess? 

THE  KING.     That  is  what  it  means. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  had  rather  be  a  gipsy,  and  choose 
my  lover  as  I  wandered  the  roads ! 

THE  KING.  But  you  are  a  Princess,  and  your  choos 
ing  is  between  peace  and  war.  Do  you  choose  war? 

THE  PRINCESS  (fiercely)  For  myself,  yes.  I  would 
gladly  lead  an  army  against  you.  I  would  destroy 
with  the  sword  everything  that  your  kingdom  stands 
for.  And  you — I  would  kill  with  pleasure. 

THE  KING.  You  might  kill  me,  but  the  things 
for  which  my  kingdom  stands  you  cannot  kill.  They 
are  indestructible.  They  are  older  than  the  world, 
and  will  last  longer. 

THE  PRINCESS,  (sadly)  Yes — there  was  order  be 
fore  the  world  began  its  tumult,  and  there  will  be 
quiet  when  the  final  night  sets  in.  I  am  only  a  spark 
in  the  great  darkness,  a  cry  in  the  wide  silence. 

THE  KING.     Do  you  submit? 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  am  not  stronger  than  death.  I 
submit.  I  would  not  have  those  truckdrivers  leaving 
their  sweethearts  to  go  to  war  on  account  of  me. 
(She  goes  up  to  the  curtain,  and  touches  it.)  How 
thin  the  prison-wall  is!  And  yet  it  shuts  me  away 
from  the  sunlight. 

THE  KING  (gently)  I  am  a  good  king,  and  I  shall 
be  a  good  husband. 

THE  PRINCESS.     It  will  be  easy  for  you,  perhaps. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     211 

To  me  it  will  not  come  so  easy  to  be  a  good  wife. 

THE  KING.  Put  yourself  in  my  hands,  and  I  will 
teach  you. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  will  try.  (She  kneels  at  his 
feet.)  O  King,  I  will  be  obedient  to  you  in  all  things. 
I  will  obey  your  commands,  and  be  as  you  wish  me  to 
be — a  good  wife  and  a  good  queen. 

THE  KING  (taking  her  hand  and  raising  her  to  his 
side)  For  my  sake! 

THE  PRINCESS.  For  the  sake  of  the  truckdriver 
and  his  sweetheart. 

THE  KING.     As  you  will. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  ask  one  small  wish — that  you 
leave  me  now.  I  must  think  over  my  new  condition 
and  all  that  it  means. 

THE  KING.  I  am  happy  to  see  you  in  so  profitable 
a  frame  of  mind.  Let  me  remind  you  that  the  royal 
luncheon  will  be  served  promptly  in  half  an  hour. 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  shall  be  there — on  time. 

THE  KING.  Meanwhile  I  leave  you  to  your 
thoughts. 

He  goes. 

THE  PRINCESS.  How  weak  I  am !  (She  goes  to 
the  wide  seat,  and  sits  down,  brooding.  The  Gipsy 
steals  in,  and  crouches  on  the  dais  beside  the  wide 
seat.)  A  good  queen,  and  a  good  wife — ? 

THE  GIPSY  (softly)  Impossible. 

THE    PRINCESS    (startled)    Was    it    I    said    that? 


212    THE   RIM   OF   THE   WORLD 

Night.  The  curtains  are  drawn  aside.  The 
walls  and  pillars  are  silhouetted  against  a  moonlit 
sky.  .  .  .  The  Gipsy  is  standing  by  the  window, 
looking  out. 

THE  GIPSY.  Ah,  nameless  and  immortal  goddess, 
whose  home  is  in  the  moonbeams!  I  speak  to  you 
and  praise  you  for  perhaps  the  last  time.  O  august 
and  whimsical  goddess,  I  am  about  to  die  for  your 
sake — I,  the  last  of  your  worshippers !  When  I  have 
perished  on  your  altar,  the  whole  world  will  be  sane. 
Your  butterflies  will  no  longer  whirl  on  crimson  wings 
within  the  minds  of  men ;  only  the  maggots  of  reason 
will  crawl  and  fester.  You  will  look,  and  weep  a 
foolish  tear — for  all  this  is  not  worth  your  grief — 
and  take  your  flight  to  other  constellations. 

THE  MAID  (who  has  just  entered  and  stands  list 
ening)  The  constellations!  Oh,  do  teach  me  as 
tronomy  ! 

THE  GIPSY.  Astronomy !  Why  do  you  want  to 
be  taught  astronomy? 

THE  MAID.  Because  I  want  to  be  able  to  tell 
fortunes  from  the  stars. 

THE  GIPSY.  That  is  astrology,  my  dear — a  much 
more  useful  science.  Come,  and  I  will  give  you  a 
lesson.  Do  you  see  that  dim  planet  swinging  low 
on  the  horizon?  That  is  my  star.  Its  name  is 
Saturn.  It  is  the  star  of  mischief  and  rebellion.  I 
was  born  under  that  star,  and  I  shall  always  hate 
order  as  Saturn  hated  his  great  enemy  Jupiter. 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     213 

THE  MAID.     One  does  not  need  to  know  the  stars 
to  tell  that.     But  let  me   counsel  you  to   caution. 

THE  GIPSY.     Ah,  my  dear,  that  was  a  wifely  speech ! 
You  will  make  a  success  of  marriage. 
THE  MAID.     I  shall  never  marry. 
THE  GIPSY.     It  would  be  a  pity  not  to  make  some 
good  man  happy.     You  are  the  ideal  of  every  male 
being  in  this  kingdom,  including  its  ruler. 

THE  MAID.  Do  you  really  think  I  am  the  sort  of 
girl  to  make  the  King  happy? 

THE  GIPSY.  I  am  sure  of  it.  You  are  the  very 
one.  You  have  all  the  domestic  virtues.  You 
are  quiet,  dignified,  obedient.  If  you  have  any 
thoughts  or  impulses  which  do  not  fit  into  the  frame 
of  wifely  domesticity,  you  know  how  to  suppress 
them. 

THE  MAID.     You  are  making  fun  of  me. 

THE  GIPSY.  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  You  would 
make  the  King  a  perfect  wife.  Ah,  if  only  you  were 
the  Princess  of  Basque,  and  she  a  child  of  the  gipsies  1 
— Shall  I  read  your  fortune  from  the  stars? 

THE  MAID.     Yes ! 

THE. GIPSY.     What  is  your  birthday? 

THE  MAID.     I  do  not  know. 

THE  GIPSY.  It  is  strange  for  a  child  of  the  gipsies 
not  to  know  that.  But  I  can  guess.  You  were 
born  under  the  sign  of  Libra. 

THE  MAID.     How  can  you  tell  that? 

THE  GIPSY.     You     counselled     me     to     caution. 


2U     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

Only  one  born  under  the  sign  of  the  scales  could  have 
made  that  speech.  You  have  the  balanced  tempera 
ment. 

THE  MAID.     Which  is  my  star? 

THE  GIPSY.  You  are  sixteen  years  old.  When 
you  were  born,  the  planet  housed  in  the  sign  of  Libra 
was  Venus.  And  so  you  will  love  not  too  much,  nor 
too  little,  but  well.  A  fortunate  planet!  There  it 
is,  high  in  the  heavens.  And  see,  it  is  in  conjunction 
with  Jupiter.  Do  you  know  what  that  means? 

THE  MAID.     No  !     Tell  me ! 

THE  GIPSY.  It  means  that  love  and  authority  will 
presently  come  together  in  your  life.  .  .  .  Oh,  happy, 
happy  child! 

THE  MAID.     But  I  do  not  understand. 

THE  GIPSY.  There  are  some  things  past  under 
standing.  Even  I  do  not  quite  understand  it  yet. 
I  must  think  it  out. 

THE  MAID.  Then  think  quickly — and  advise  me. 
For  I  read  my  fortune  otherwise.  I  see  myself  grow 
ing  hollow-eyed  with  looking  in  eternal  silence  at  the 
man  I  love — and  worse  than  that,  at  the  woman  I 
hate — for  I  do  hate  her.  I  shall  go  mad  with  want 
ing  to  speak  out  my  love  and  hate.  Tell  me  what 
to  do! 

THE  GIPSY.  I  cannot  advise  to  rashness.  I  can 
only  say — speak  out  your  love  and  hate. 

THE  MAID.     Do  you  mean — tell  him? 

THE    GIPSY.     Yes.     Tell    him.     And    do    not    be 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     215 

afraid.  There  is  no  man  so  proud  but  he  is  moved  to 
tenderness  when  a  woman  says  she  loves  him.  You  go 
to  an  easy  task,  my  dear,  as  I  go  to  a  hard  one. 
For  there  is  no  woman  so  kind  but  her  heart  is 
stirred  with  a  base  triumph  and  an  easy  scorn 
when  a  man  speaks  out  his  love.  .  .  . 

They  go  out.  From  the  other  side  the  King  and 
the  Princess  come  in. 

THE  KING.  I  have  shown  you  your  apartment.  If 
there  is  anything  wanting  to  your  comfort,  name 
it  and  it  shall  be  provided. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Nothing  is  wanting,  not  even  a 
lock  on  the  door.  I  shall  be  happy  in  my  dreams 
at  least. 

THE  KING.  Your  delicacy  of  mind  does  you 
credit.  I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  are  not  lacking 
in  that  supreme  attribute  of  young  womanhood — 
modesty. 

THE  PRINCESS.  You  mistake  me.  There  shall  be 
no  lock  on  the  door  of  my  dreams.  And  I  shall  meet 
again  in  dreams  the  lover  whom  I  know  so  well. 

THE  KING  (scandalized)  Princess ! 

THE  PRINCESS.  Do  you  put  a  ban  on  my  dreams, 
too? 

THE  KING.     I  forbid  you  to  discuss  such  subjects. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Very  well.  I  shall  keep  my 
thoughts  to  myself, 

THE  KING.  Princess,  I  understand  that  it  is  your 
avocation  to  be  a  horse-breaker. 


216     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  PRINCESS.     It  is  one  of  them. 

THE  KING.  It  shall  be  one  of  mine  to  be  a  woman- 
breaker. 

THE  PRINCESS.     It  is  well  to  know  where  we  stand. 

THE  KING.  You  promised  this  morning  to  submit 
yourself  to  me,  and  learn  to  be  a  good  wife. 

THE  PRINCESS.  So  I  did.  And  perhaps  so  will  I. 
I  do  not  know. 

THE  KING.  In  what  way  do  I  displease  you?  If 
it  is  anything  which  I  can  change  without  hurt  to  the 
well-being  of  my  kingdom  and  the  traditions  of  my 
ancestors,  I  will  gladly  change  it. 

THE  PRINCESS.  There  are  many  things — too  many 
to  enumerate  in  detail. 

TH*E  KING.     Name  one  of  them. 

THE  PRINCESS.  For  one  thing,  you  seem  a  trifle 
less  handsome  than  the  portrait  of  you  they  gave  me. 
— But  I  suppose  you  have  been  thinking  the  same 
thing  about  me.  Indeed,  my  portrait  must  have 
flattered  me  greatly,  since  you  did  not  recognize  me 
this  morning.  .  .  . 

THE  KING.  For  a  moment — it  must  have  been  in 
tuition — I  did  think  it  was  you.  Unfortunately,  I 
allowed  my  judgment  to  lead  me  astray. 

THE  PRINCESS.  It  always  will,  if  you  pay  any  at 
tention  to  it.  So  you  did  believe  it  was  I  for 
a  moment?  That  is  interesting!  And  how  did  you 
feel? 

THE  KING,     I — shall  I  tell  you? 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     217 

THE  PRINCESS.     Yes — tell  me! 

THE  KING.  I  felt  embarrassed  that  I  should  have 
been  receiving  you  in  my  dressing  gown. 

THE  PRINCESS  (scornfully)  Oh! 

She  walks  away. 

THE  KING  {sadly)  I  should  not  have  told  you 
about  it. 

THE  PRINCESS  (coming  back  to  him)  Yes.  It  was 
quite  right  to  tell  me.  And  I  can  see  now  why  you 
would  feel  that  way.  You  wanted  to  look  your  best 
for  me,  didn't  you?  I  quite  understand  that.  I 
spent  weeks  trying  on  my  new  gowns,  and  deciding 
in  which  one  I  would  seem  most  beautiful  to  you. 
Only,  of  course,  I  forgot  at  the  last  moment,  and 
rode  off  to  you  in  this! 

THE  KING.  I — I  can  understand  how  you  felt.  I 
am — sorry  I  disappointed  you.  Forgive  me. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Yes.  (After  a  silence)  I  sup 
pose  we  can  be  happy  together — after  a  fashion. 

THE  KING.  I  am  sure  of  it.  And  now — shall  we 
go  down  to  the  throne-room  to  rehearse  the  ceremony 
for  tomorrow? 

THE  PRINCESS.  Please  leave  me  here  a  while.  I 
want  to  think. 

THE  KING.  Very  well.  I  shall  come  for  you  pres 
ently. 

He  goes. 

THE  PRINCESS  {after  a  pause)  If  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  it — ! 


218     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  GIPSY  (appearing  over  the  window-ledge) 
Never ! 

THE  PRINCESS.     Who  are  you? 

THE  GIPSY.  Say  that  I  am  the  wind,  coming  in  at 
your  window  as  I  have  come  so  many  times  before 
when  you  lay  awake  in  your  chamber,  bringing  you 
strange  thoughts. 

THE  PRINCESS.  If  you  are  the  wind  bringing  me 
strange  thoughts,  you  come  to  me  for  the  last  time. 

THE  GIPSY.  Or  say  that  I  am  a  dream  that  has 
come  to  you  often  in  your  chamber  when  you  lay 
asleep. 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  am  forbidden  to  dream,  now. 

THE  GIPSY.  Or  say  that  I  am  a  Gipsy,  come  to  tell 
a  Queen  that  he  loves  her. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Those  words  are  like  an  echo.  I 
seem  to  have  heard  them  many  times.  Come  nearer. 

He  enters,  and  kneels  to  her. 

THE  GIPSY.  This  is  my  last  folly.  I  come  to  you, 
O  princess,  and  offer  all  I  have — my  love,  and  a  bed 
on  the  heath  under  the  stars. 

THE  PRINCESS.  That  is  not  enough,  my  friend. 
There  are  other  things. 

THE  GIPSY.     What  other  things? 

THE  PRINCESS.  Dimly,  as  from  another  life,  I 
seem  to  remember  the  jolting  of  the  wagons  that 
rocked  me  to  sleep,  and  the  good  smell  of  the  soup  in 
the  big  kettle  over  the  fire. 

THE  GIPSY  (rising)  This  is  beyond  reason! 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD     219 

THE  PRINCESS.  All  beautiful  things  are  beyond 
reason,  my  friend. 

THE  GIPSY.     You  are  a  Gipsy? 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  am  a  Gipsy's  sweetheart.  Take 
me  away  with  you. 

THE  GIPSY.     How  can  we  leave  this  palace? 

THE  PRINCESS.     The  way  we  came. 

THE  GIPSY.     The  wall — 

THE  PRINCESS.  Is  seventeen  feet  high.  A  guard 
of  soldiers  continually  marcihes  around  it.  And 
there  are  spikes  on  the  top.  How  did  we  get  over? 
That  is  our  secret! 

THE  GIPSY.     You  have  no  regrets? 

THE  PRINCESS.     None. 

THE  GIPSY.     Your  promise  to  the  King? 

THE  PRINCESS.     I  am  as  mutable  as  wind. 

THE  GIPSY.       Let  US  gO. 

THE  PRINCESS.  One  moment !  There  is  a  girl  here 
I  am  sorry  for.  Can  we  not  think  of  some  way  to 
help  her  before  we  go?  She  loves  the  King.  Think! 

THE  GIPSY.  I  have  thought.  She  is  the  rightful 
Princess  of  Basque — stolen  from  her  cradle  by  Gip 
sies.  Tomorrow  an  old  woman  from  the  tribe  will 
come  with  the  proofs.  The  King  will  marry  her, 
and  they  will  be  happy. 

THE  PRINCESS.  And  I  am  the  Gipsy  child  left  in 
her  place!  But  is  it  really  true? 

THE  GIPSY.  What  matters  reality  to  us?  We 
are  not  real. 


220     THE    RIM    OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  PRINCESS.  Good-bye,  then,  to  this  place  of 
solid  fact  that  has  imprisoned  us  too  long.  In  an 
other  moment  we  shall  melt  into  the  moonlight. 

THE  GIPSY.     Kiss  me ! 

THE  PRINCESS.     Not  here. 

THE  GIPSY.  No.  There  is  a  fire  in  our  kisses  that 
would  shatter  and  destroy  these  comfortable  walls. 
Under  the  stars,  among  the  winds,  we  shall  quench 
the  hunger  and  thirst  of  our  love.  And  there  let 
our  dream  come  true.  .  .  . 

THE  PRINCESS.  Ah,  there  is  a  fire  in  our  hearts 
that  will  shatter  and  destroy  all  comfort,  even  our 
own.  Not  even  there,  under  the  stars,  among  the 
winds,  shall  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  love  be  quenched. 
Never  shall  our  dream  come  true.  .  .  . 

THE  GIPSY.  It  is  enough  that  we  go  to  be  compan 
ions  of  the  winds  and  stars,  wanderers  with  them.  .  . . 

He  leads  her  to  the  window. 

THE  PRINCESS.     Over  the  rim  of  the  world! 

They  ascend  and  vanish  outside. 


POOR  HAROLD! 

A  COMEDY 


To  DUDLEY  FIELD  MALONE 


This  play  was  first  produced  in  Croton-on-Hudson,  N.  Y., 
by  the  Mt.  Airy  Players,  in  1920,  with  the  following  cast: 


Harold  Eugene  Boissevain 

Isabel   Doris  Stevens 

Mrs    Murphy  B.  Marie  Gage 

Mrs    Falcington   Crystal  Eastman 


A  room  in  Washington  Square  South.  By  the 
light  of  a  candle,  a  young  man  in  tousled  hair  and 
dressing  gown  is  writing  furiously  at  a  little  table. 
A  clock  within  strikes  seven. 

A  door  at  the  back  opens,  and  a  young  woman 
looks  in,  sleepily.  She  frowns.  The  young  man 
looks  up  guiltily. 

SHE.     What  are  you  doing? 

HE  (innocently)  Writing. 

SHE.  So  I  see.  (She  comes  in,  and  sits  down. 
It  may  be  remarked  that  a  woman's  morning  appear 
ance,  in  deshabille,  is  a  severe  test  of  both  looks 
and  character;  she  passes  that  test  triumphantly. 
She  looks  at  the  young  man,  and  asks) — Poetry? 

HE  (hesitatingly)  No.  .  .  . 

SHE  (continues  to  look  inquiry). 

HE  (finally)  A  letter.   .  .   . 

SHB  (inflexibly) — To  whom? 

HE  (defiantly)  To  my  wife! 

SHE.  Oh!  That's  all  right.  I  thought  perhaps 
you  were  writing  to  your  father. 

HE  (bitterly)  My  father!  Why  should  I  write  to 
my  father?  Isn't  it  enough  that  I  have  broken  his 
heart  and  brought  disgrace  upon  him  in  his  old  age — 

223 


224  POOR    HAROLD 

SHE.  Disgrace?  Nonsense!  Anybody  might  be 
named  as  a  co-respondent  in  a  divorce  case. 

HE.  Not  in  Evanston,  Illinois.  Not  when  you  are 
the  local  feature  of  a  notorious  Chicago  scandal. 
Not  when  your  letters  to  the  lady  are  published  in 
the  newspapers. — Oh,  those  letters! 

SHE.  Were  they  such  incriminating  letters, 
Harold? 

HAROLD.  Incriminating?  How  can  you  ask  that, 
Isabel?  They  were  perfectly  innocent  letters,  such 
as  any  gentleman  poet  might  write  to  any  lady 
poetess.  How  was  I  to  know  that  a  rather  plain- 
featured  woman  I  sat  next  to  at  a  Poetry  Dinner  in 
Chicago  was  conducting  a  dozen  love-affairs?  How 
was  I  to  know  that  my  expressions  of  literary  regard 
would  look  like  love-letters  to  her  long-suffering  hus 
band  ?  That's  the  irony  of  it :  I'm  perfectly  blame 
less.  God  knows  I  couldn't  have  been  anything  else, 
with  her.  But  I've  always  been  blameless — in  all  the 
seven  years  of  my  marriage,  I  never  even  kissed  an 
other  woman.  And  then  to  have  this  happen! 
Scandal,  disgrace,  the  talk  of  all  Evanston !  Dis 
owned  by  my  father,  repudiated  by  my  wife,  ostra 
cized  by  my  friends,  cast  forth  into  outer  darkness, 
and  dropped  naked  and  penniless  into  Greenwich 
Village! 

ISABEL  (laughing)  Oh,  not  exactly  naked,  Harold! 

HAROLD.  One  suit !  And  that — (he  throws  off  his 
dressing  gown)  evening  clothes !  I  might  as  well  be 


POOR    HAROLD  225 

naked — I  can't  go  anywhere  in  the  daytime.  I  tell 
you  I'm  not  used  to  this.  One  week  ago  I  had  a 
house,  a  motor  car,  a  wife,  a  position  in  my  father's 
law-office,  a  place  in  society— 

ISABEL.  That's  just  it — that's  why  I  was  afraid 
you  were  writing  to  your  father.  He'd  send  you 
money,  of  course.  But  if  you  ask  him  for  it,  I'll 
never  speak  to  you  again.  And  as  for  clothes,  you 
know  there's  a  suit  of  clothes  in  there, — a  perfectly 
good  suit,  too,  and  I  think  you're  an  idiot  not  to 
put  it  on. 

HAROLD.     Yes.     One  of  Jim's  old  suits. 

ISABEL.  Well,  what  if  it  is?  It  would  fit  you 
perfectly. 

HAROLD.     Oh,  Isabel!     Can't  you  see? 

ISABEL.  No,  I  can't  see.  If  Jim  is  generous 
enough  to  give  you  a  suit  of  clothes — 

HAROLD.  Yes.  That's  just  it.  Jim's  girl — • 
Jim's  clothes — !  Well — (sullenly) — I  think  Jim's^ 
generosity  has  gone  far  enough.  I'll  be  damned  if 
I'll  take  his  clothes. 

ISABEL.  You're  perfectly  disgusting.  If  you 
weren't  a  silly  poet  and  didn't  know  any  better — 
Yes,  Harold  Falcington,  for  a  nice  boy  as  you  are 
in  most  ways,  you  have  the  most  antiquated  and  of 
fensive  ideas  about  women !  Jim  knows  better  than 
to  have  ever  considered  me  his  property.  .  .  . 

HAROLD  (taken  aback  by  for  fierceness)  Good  heav 
ens,  Isabel,  I  didn't  mean  that! 


226  POOR    HAROLD 

ISABEL.  Yes,  you  did,  Harold ;  but  I'm  glad  you're 
sorry.  It's  a  good  thing  you  were  thrown  out  of 
Evanston,  Illinois.  It's  a  good  thing  you  came  to 
Greenwich  Village.  And  it's  a  good  thing  that  I've 
a  strong  maternal  instinct.  If  you'll  just  get  the 
idea  out  of  your  head  that  you're  a  ruined  man  and  a 
lost  soul  because  you've  been  talked  about  and  have 
lost  your  job  in  your  father's  office,  and  if  you'll 
just  stop  thinking  that  poor  dear  innocent  Greenwich 
Village  is  a  sink  of  iniquity  and  that  I'm  a  wicked 
woman — 

HAROLD.  Isabel !  I  never  said  you  were  a  wicked 
woman!  I  never  thought  such  a  thing! 

ISABEL.  But  you  think  you're  a  wicked  man; 
and  so  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  Look !  it's  broad 
daylight.  (She  goes  to  the  window,  and  opem  the 
curtains.)  Put  out  that  candle,  and  read  me  the 
letter  you've  written  to  your  wife. 

She  comes  back,  blows  out  the  candle  herself,  and 
sits  down  comfortably  opposite  him. 

HAROLD.     No,  I  can't. 

ISABEL.  Why  not?  You've  read  me  all  the 
others.  Is  this  just  like  them?  (Teasingly) — 
"Dear  Gertrude:  I  know  you  will  not  believe  me 
when  I  say  that  I  have  been  the  victim  of  a  mon 
strous  injustice,  but  nevertheless  it  is  true.  It  has 
all  been  a  hideous  mistake."  That's  the  preamble. 
Then  a  regular  lawyer's  brief,  arguing  the  case — ten 
pages.  Then  a  wild,  passionate  appeal  for  her  to 


POOR    HAROLD  227 

forget  and  forgive.  I  know  how  it  goes.  You've 
written  one  every  night.  This  is  the  seventh. 

HAROLD.     This  one  is  different. 

ISABEL.     Good.     What  does  it  say? 

HAROLD.     It  says  that  I  am  in  love  with  you. 

ISABEL.  Don't  prevaricate,  Harold !  It  says  you 
are  now  hopelessly  in  the  clutches  of  a  vampire — 
doesn't  it? 

HAROLD  (desperately)  No! 

ISABEL  (warningly)  Harold!     The  truth! 

HAROLD  (weakening)  Well — 

ISABEL.  I  knew  it !  That's  what  you  would  say. 
You've  told  her  it's  no  use  to  forgive  you  now. 

HAROLD.  Yes — I  did  say  that — I  don't  want 
her  to  forgive  me,  now.  I  am  reconciled  to  my  fate. 

ISABEL.      Ah — but  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late,  now! 

HAROLD.     What  do  you  mean? 

ISABEL.  I  mean  that  your  other  letters  will  have 
done  their  work.  Your  wife  by  this  time  has  been 
convinced  of  your  innocence — she  realizes  that  she 
has  acted  rashly — she  is  ready  to  forgive  you.  And 
she  is  probably  at  this  moment  on  her  way  to  New 
York  to  tell  you  so,  and  take  you  back  home ! 

HAROLD    (frightened)    No ! 

ISABEL.  Yes!  If  she  is  not  already  here  and 
looking  for  you.  .  .  . 

HAROLD.     Impossible ! 

ISABEL.  Those  letters  were  very  convincing, 
Harold ! 


228  POOR    HAROLD 

HAROLD  (shaking  his  head)  Not  in  the  face  of  the 
universal  belief  of  all  Evanston  in  my  guilt. 

ISABEL.     Then  she  has  forgiven  you  anyway. 

HAROLD  (sadly)  You  do  not  know  her. 

ISABEL.  Don't  I?  No,  Harold,  this  is  to  be  our 
last  breakfast  together.  You  wouldn't  have  her  walk 
in  on  us,  would  you? — And  that  reminds  me. 
We're  out  of  coffee.  You  must  go  and  get  some 
while  I  dress.  And  go  to  the  little  French  bakery 
for  some  brioches. 

HAROLD.     In  these   clothes? 

ISABEL.     Or  Jim's.     Just  as  you  like. 

•HAROLD.  Very  well.  I  shall  go  as  I  am. 
(Gloomily)  After  all,  I  don't  know  why  I  should 
mind  one  more  farcical  touch  to  my  situation.  A 
grown  man  that  doesn't  know  how  to  earn  his  living — 

ISABEL.     I've  suggested  several  ways. 

HAROLD.     Yes,  acting !     No.     I'd  rather  starve. 

ISABEL.     There  are  other  alternatives. 

HAROLD.  Yes.  Looking  over  the  scientific  maga 
zines  and  finding  out  about  new  inventions,  and  writ 
ing  little  pieces  about  them  and  selling  that  to  other 
magazines ! 

ISABEL.     Why  not? 

HAROLD.  A  pretty  job  for  a  poet!  What  do  7 
know  about  machinery? 

ISABEL.  All  the  poets  I  know  pay  their  rent  that 
way.  And  they  none  of  them  know  anything  about 
machinery. 


POOR    HAROLD  229 

HAROLD.  All  right.  I'm  in  a  crazy  world. 
Everything's  topsy-turvy.  Even  the  streets  have 
gone  insane.  They  wind  and  twist  until  they  cross 
their  own  tracks.  I  know  I'll  get  lost  looking  for 
that  French  bakery.  (He  goes  to  the  door.)  Green 
wich  Village !  My  God ! 

He  goes  out.  She,  after  a  moment,  goes  into  the 
back  room.  The  charwoman  enters,  and  commences 
to  clean  up  the  place.  Isabel  comes  back,  partly 
clothed  and  with  the  rest  of  her  things  on  her  arm± 
and  -finishes  lur  toilet  in  front  of  the  mirror.  A 
sort  of  conversation  ensues. 

THE  CHARWOMAN.     A  grand  day  it's  going  to  be. 

ISABEL  (after  a  pause) — Do  you  think  I'm  a  bad 
woman,  Mrs.  Murphy? 

MRS.  MURPHY.  Come,  now,  it's  not  a  fair  question, 
and  me  workin'  for  you.  I've  no  call  to  be  criticizin' 
the  way  you  do  behave.  It's  my  business  to  be 
cleanin'  up  the  place,  and  if  'tis  a  nest  of  paganism, 
sure  'tis  not  for  my  own  soul  to  answer  for  it  at  the 
Judgment  Day.  And  a  blessed  thought  it  is,  too, 
that  they  that  follow  after  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  must 
go  to  hell,  or  else  who  knows  what  a  poor  soul  like 
me  would  do  sometimes,  what  with  seein'  the  carryin's- 
on  that  one  does  see.  But  I'd  not  be  breathin'  a  word 
against  a  nice  young  lady  like  yourself. 

ISABEL.     What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Falcington? 

MRS.  MURPHY.  Well,  as  my  sister  that's  dead  in 
Ireland  used  to  say,  and  we  two  girls  together, 


230  POOR    HAROLD 

"Sure,"  she  said,  "there's  no  accoimtin'  for  tastes," 
she  said.  And  you  with  a  fine  grand  man  the  like  of 
Mr.  Jim,  to  be  takin'  up  with  a  lost  sheep  like  this 
one.  But  I'd  not  be  sayin'  a  word  against  him,  for 
it's  a  pretty  boy  he  is,  to  be  sure.  Well,  there's  a 
Last  Day  comin'  for  us  all,  and  the  sooner  the  better, 
the  way  the  young  do  be  shiftin'  and  changin'  as  the 
fancy  takes  them.  I  say  nothin'  at  all,  nothin'  at 
all — but  if  you've  a  quarrel  had  with  Mr.  Jim,  why 
don't  you  make  it  up  with  him? 

ISABEL.  But  Jim  and  I  aren't  married  either,  you 
know. 

MRS.  MURPHY.  It's  too  soft  you  are,  that's  why. 
You  take  no  for  an  answer,  as  a  girl  shouldn't.  Let 
you  keep  at  him  long  enough,  and  he'll  give  in.  Sure 
the  youth  of  this  generation  have  no  regard  for  their 
proper  rights.  Never  was  a  man  yet  that  couldn't 
be  come  around,  if  he  was  taken  in  his  weakness.  A 
silk  dress  or  a  wedding  ring  or  shoes  for  the  baby, 
it's  all  the  same — they  have  to  be  coaxed  twice  for 
every  one  thing  they  do.  It's  the  nature  of  the  beast, 
so  it  is,  God  help  us.  Well  I  remember  how  my  sister 
that's  dead  in  Ireland  used  to  say,  and  we  girls  to 
gether,  "Sure,"  says  she,  "it's  woman's  place  to  ask," 
says  she,  "and  man's  to  refuse,"  says  she,  "and  wom 
an's  to  ask  again,"  says  she.  Widow  that  I  am 
this  ten  year,  I  could  tell  you  some  things  now — but 
I'll  not  be  sayin'  a  word. 

ISABEL.     Do  I  look  all  right? 


POOR    HAROLD  231 

MRS.  MURPHY.  It's  pretty  as  a  flower  you  look, 
Miss.  And  I'd  not  be  askin'  questions,  for  it's  none 
of  my  business  at  all,  but  who  are  you  fixin'  yourself 
up  for  to-day,  if  you  know  yourself? 

ISABEL.  What  difference  does  it  make?  I  go  into 
rehearsal  next  week,  and  there's  a  manager  that  will 
want  to  make  love  to  me,  and  he's  fat,  and  I'll  get  to 
hate  and  loathe  the  sight  of  male  mankind — and  this 
is  my  last  week  to  enjoy  myself!  (She  goes  to  the 
door  at  the  back.)  Besides,  Jim  may  have  another 
girl  by  this  time,  or  Mr.  Falcington's  wife  may  come. 

She  goes  into  the  inner  room. 

MRS.  MURPHY.     His  wife — God  help  us  ! 

She  shakes  her  head,  and  starts  to  go  out. 

There  is  a  knock.  She  opens  the  door,  and  ad 
mits  a  woman  in  a  travelling  suit. 

THE  WOMAN.     Is  Mr.  Falcington  here? 

MRS.  MURPHY  (disingenuously)  There's  a  party  of 
that  name  on  the  east  side  of  the  Square  if  I'm  not 
mistaken,  ma'am,  in  the  Benedick,  bachelor  apart 
ments  like — 'tis  there  you  might  inquire. 

THE  WOMAN.     There's  no  Mr.  Falcington  here? 

MRS.  MURPHY.  On  another  floor,  maybe.  'Tis  a 
lady  lives  here. 

The  woman  turns  to  go. 

ISABEL  (within)  Who  is  asking  for  Mr.  Falcing 
ton? 

THE  WOMAN.     I  am  Mrs.  Falcington, — his  wife. 

ISABEL  (at  the  inner  door)  Oh ! 


232  POOR    HAROLD 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     And  you  are  Isabel  Summers? 

ISABEL.     Yes. 

MRS.  MURPHY.     The  Lord  have  mercy ! 

She  escapes. 

ISABEL.     Sit  down. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Thank  you.  I  will.  (She 
does  so.)  Harold  is  out? 

ISABEL.  Yes.  (A  pause)  Getting  brioches  for 
breakfast.  (A  pause)  You  look  tired.  Won't  you 
have  some  coffee?  It's  ready. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     Thank  you.     Yes. 

Both  the  women  give  an  impression  of  timid 
courage. 

ISABEL  (pouring  the  coffee)  He  ought  to  be  back 
soon.  He  talked  of  getting  lost  in  the  crooked 
streets  of  the  Village,  and  I'm  afraid  that's  what 
has  happened  to  him. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Yes.  Harold  is  all  at  sea  in  a 
strange  place. 

She  takes  the  coffee  and  sips  it. 

ISABEL.     Tell  me — how  did  you  know? 

MRS.  FALCINGTON  (smiling)  Private  detectives. 

ISABEL  (a  little  shocked)  Oh! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Please  don't  misunderstand  me. 
I'm  not  going  to  make  any  trouble.  .  .  .  But  I  did 
want  to  know  what  became  of  him. 

ISABEL.     Yes  .   .   .  naturally. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  And  then — you  see,  I  wanted 
to  know  what  you  were  like;  and — and  whether  he 


POOR    HAROLD  233 

was  happy  with  you.  I  don't  think  detectives  are 
very  intelligent.  They  couldn't  get  it  into  their 
heads  that  I  wanted  the  truth.  They  gave  me  a — 
a  very  lurid  account  of — of  you.  And  of  course 
Harold's  letters  gave  me  no  help.  So  I  came  down 
to  see  for  myself. 

ISABEL  (rising)  Mrs.  Falcington:  here  is  a  letter 
that  Harold  was  writing  this  morning.  It  tells  about 
me — and  I  fancy  you  won't  find  it  so  essentially  dif 
ferent  from  the  detectives'  account.  Read  it  and 
see. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON  (reading  the  letter)  He  says  he 
loves  you. 

ISABEL.      In  those  words? 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  No — he  says  he  is  involved  in 
a  strange  and  sudden  infatuation.  But  it  means 
the  same  thing. 

ISABEL.  No  it  doesn't.  He  isn't  in  love  with  me. 
I'll  tell  you  straight — he's  in  love  with  you. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     How  do  you  know? 

ISABEL.     From  the  letters  he  wrote  you. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Oh!  he  showed  them  to  you, 
did  he?  How  like  him! 

ISABEL.  But  he  is  in  love  with  you.  And  he 
isn't  happy  with  me. 

MRS.   FALCINGTON.       Why  not  ? 

ISABEL.  He  hates  this  kind  of  life.  He  wants 
order,  regularity,  stability,  comfort,  ease,  the  re 
spect  of  the  community — 


234*  POOR    HAROLD 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  He  used  to  tell  me  all  those 
things  bored  him  to  death. 

ISABEL  (pleading)  You  must  take  him  back! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     Don't  you  want  him? 

ISABEL.  Well — (she  laughs  in  embarrassment) — 
Not  that  bad ! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  His  father  will  make  him  an 
allowance  to  live  on. 

ISABEL.  I've  told  him  I  would  never  speak  to 
him  again  if  he  took  it. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  You  don't  expect  him  to  work, 
do  you? 

ISABEL.     Yes — if  he  has  anything  to  do  with  me. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Then  if  you  can  make  him  do 
that,  by  all  means  take  charge  of  his  destinies ! 

ISABEL.  But — but — that's  not  the  point.  He 
loves  you.  He  wants  to  go  back.  He  didn't  do 
any  of  those  things  he  was  accused  of,  you  know. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.      Did  he  tell  you  that? 

ISABEL.     Yes. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Well — he  told  a  story. 
(Isabel  is  shocked.)  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  it. 
(Her  tone  leaves  none.) 

ISABEL.     But  she  was  ugly ! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     Did  he  tell  you  that? 

ISABEL.     Yes  !     Wasn't  she  ? 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  There  are  handsome  poetesses 
— a  few — and  this  was  one  of  them.  She  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  women  in  Chicago. 


POOR    HAROLD  235 

ISABEL.     Then  he  lied.  .  .  . 

MRS.   FALCINGTON.       Oh,   JCS of   COUFSC.       He  just 

can't  help  it.  Any  more  than  he  can  help  making 
love — 

ISABEL.     You  mean  this  is  not  the  first — 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  In  the  seven  years  of  our  mar 
riage,  he  has  made  love  to  every  pretty  woman  he 
came  across. 

ISABEL  (sharply)  Why  did  you  stand  for  it? 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Because  I  was  a  fool.  And 
because  he  is  a  child. 

ISABEL  (almost  pleadingly)  He  can  write  poetry, 
can't  he? 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     Yes.     Yes !     Oh,  yes ! 

ISABEL.  Then — I  suppose — it's  all  right.  But 
I'm  angry  at  myself,  just  the  same,  for  being  taken 
in. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  It's  st range.  .  .  .  You  feel 
humiliated  at  having  been  made  a  fool  of  for  seven 
days.  I've  been  made  a  fool  of  for  seven  years,  and 
I've  never  realized  that  I  had  a  right  to  feel  ashamed. 

ISABEL.  That's  the  difference  between  Greenwich 
Village  and  Evanston,  Illinois. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  Yes.  But  when  I  go  back  I 
shall  lose  the  sense  of  it.  I'll  think  I'm  an  injured 
woman  because  he  was  unfaithful  to  me,  or  because 
he  brought  scandal  upon  the  family,  or  something 
like  that.  Now  I  realize  that  it's  none  of  those 
things.  It's — it's  just  an  offence  against — my  hu- 


236  POOR    HAROLD 

man  dignity.  I've  been  treated  like — like  an  in 
ferior.  But  why  shouldn't  I  be  treated  like  an 
inferior?  I  am  an  inferior.  When  I  go  back  to 
Evanston,  and  take  up  grass-widowhood  and  the 
burden  of  living  down  the  family  scandal,  and  sit 
and  twiddle  my  thumbs  in  a  big  house,  and  have  my 
maiden  aunt  come  to  live  with  me — 

ISABEL.  But  why  should  you  do  that?  If  that's 
what  it  means  to  go  back  to  Evanston,  don't  go! 
Stay  here ! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     But — what  could  I  do  ? 

ISABEL.     Do?     Why — why — go     on     the     stage! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON  Arising)  Are  you  in  earnest? 

ISABEL.  Look  here.  You've  a  good  voice,  and 
you're  intelligent.  That's  enough  to  start  with.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  can  act  or  not — but  you'll 
find  out.  And  if  you  can't  act,  you'll  do  something 
else.  Your  people  will  stake  you? — give  you  an 
allowance,  I  mean? 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  To  go  on  the  stage  with? 
Never.  But  I've  a  small  income  of  my  own.  Only 
about  a  hundred  a  month.  Would  that  do? 

ISABEL.  Do?  Yes,  that  will  do  very  well!  And 
now  it's  my  turn  to  ask  you — are  you  in  earnest? 
Because  I  am. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  You  are  the  first  human  being 
who  even  suggested  to  me  that  I  could  do  anything. 
I've  wanted  to  do  something,  but  I  couldn't  even 
think  of  it  as  possible.  It  wasn't  possible  in  Evans- 


POORHAROLD  23t 

ton.  And  as  for  acting,  I  kept  that  dream  fast 
locked  at  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart,  for  fear  if  I 
brought  it  out  it  would  be  shattered  by  polite 
laughter — • 

ISABEL.  You'll  have  to  expose  that  dream  to 
worse  things  than  polite  laughter,  my  dear. 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.  I  can,  now.  It  won't  get  hurt. 
I'm  free  now  to  take  care  of  my  dream — to  fight 
for  it — to  make  it  come  true.  You  have  set  me  free. 
— I'm  going  to  go  and  get  a  room — now! 

ISABEL.     Let  me  go  with  you  and  help  you  find  one  1 

MRS.  FALCINGTON.     And  to-morrow — 

ISABEL.     To-morrow — 

Harold  enters.  He  stops  short  in  the  doorway, 
and  drops  the  brioches.  He  looks  at  one  woman, 
then  at  the  other.  Suddenly  he  goes  between  them 
with  arms  outspread  as  though  to  keep  the  peace. 

HAROLD.  No !  no !  I  am  not  worthy  of  either  of 
you !  (They  stare  at  him,  bewildered.  He  goes 
on) — Why  should  you  struggle  over  me?  Do  not 
hate  each  other!  For  my  sake,  be  friends!  Ah, 
God,  that  this  tragic  meeting  should  have  happened ! 
And  now  I  must  decide  between  you.  .  .  .  (He  goes 
to  Mrs.  Falcington  and  throws  himself  on  his  knees 
before  her.)  Forgive  and  forget !  Come  back  with 
me  to  Evanston! 

MRS.  FALCINGTON  (over  his  head  to  Isabel)  The 
perfect  egotist! 

The   curtain  -falls,   and   then   rises   again  for  a 


POOR    HAROLD 


moment.     Harold  is  now  on  Tus   knees   to  Isabel. 

HAROLD.     Marry  me  ! 

ISABEL.  Harold  !  You  have  not  been  all  this  time 
getting  brioches.  I  smell  —  heliotrope! 

The  curtain  rises  and  falls  several  times,  showing 
Harold  on  his  knees  alternately  to  the  two  women, 
who  look  at  each  other  above  his  head,  paying  no 
attention  to  him. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  •*     202  Main  Library 

15915 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 


RECEIVED^!  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

1JI  A  '  /             U     '('\C\f* 

MAY     b  19H6 

CIRCULATION  DEFT, 

FORM  NO.  DD6, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


80002055^1 


M      366 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


